Continental Drift
by Kyriana
Summary: Love. War. Pain. Joy. It’s a Carby romance that begins with a heartbreaking time from their recent past and follows them as they learn lessons of love. A ‘cinematic’ epic—complete with Carby moments we always wanted to see. COMPLETE in nine chapters.
1. Chasing a Feather

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?" with spoilers through "The Lost")**_

**_Chapter One: Chasing a Feather_**

**_Rating: PG-13 with cautioning for some violence and romantic situations._**

**_Summary: A cinematic Carby tale set in their recent past, complete with moments we wish we got to see._**

**_Disclaimer: Of course, I claim no rights to the ER characters, though I reserve rights to this story and dialogue. It's all I can cling to—that and the hope that TPTB fix things._**

**_Author's Note: I hope in some way this story helps survive the lack of Carby romance on ER. First of nine chapters is below._**

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"I CAN'T KEEP doing this!"

Abby shouted it at Carter as he walked away. She meant it. Her arms were folded across her chest to shield her from the crisp spring breeze and to protect her heart from the pounding it was taking—_again_. She'd seen the back of his head as he walked away one too many times over the past few weeks. For a moment, she thought he hesitated, but he continued on as if her cries were meaningless. And it left her confused and angry and a little afraid.

She waited until he disappeared from view—and then some, still holding out hope that he would have a change of heart. Busy rush-hour pedestrians struggled to get past her on the way to the El train, and they jostled her as she stood on the sidewalk.

Resigned that he wouldn't change his mind, Abby walked slowly back into the hospital and ran into Susan.

"Hey there," Susan said quietly.

But Abby's head was caught in the whirlwind of the day. She walked passed Susan into what was left of the lounge and sat down at the edge of the round table—the only spot in the room that wasn't covered with plastic or sawdust from remodeling. A piece of paper lay alone on the table. She placed her index finger on it and absentmindedly twirled it around the smooth surface, until she looked more closely and saw Carter's handwriting. It was his flight itinerary.

"_7:40 pm: Air France Flight 293—O'Hare to Paris  
(connects in Montreal, Glasgow). Arrive 6:30 pm local.  
10:05 pm: Flight 1390—Paris to Kinshasa.  
Local trans. to Kisangani"_

Behind her Susan entered.

"Are you okay?"

Abby looked over her shoulder at her but was afraid to answer. She didn't have to; her face told the story.

"I was looking for Carter," Susan said gingerly. "Kerry just got off the phone with somebody from that 'adventure doctor' organization that Carter and Luka were working with. They said they are dispatching a team to look for Luka."

"Too late. Carter went to find him."

"What?"

"I'm not kidding. He stuffed a bag with supplies and ran out of here."

Abby choked a little on the last few words but cleared her throat to keep her composure.

"Did you try to stop him?"

"I ran after him like an idiot," Abby confessed. "The more I chased him, the faster he ran away—"

She stopped to try to contain the emotion she could hear in her own voice. She cleared her throat and continued. "I begged him to stay . . . I don't understand what's going on with him . . . or us. I don't even know if there is an 'us' anymore."

"I thought you went for coffee? Didn't you talk?" Susan wondered.

"We ended up fighting, and I stormed off."

"What happened?"

"He was telling me about Africa . . . the conditions . . . I know it affected him. But he never talked about why he went and what was wrong and why he left so suddenly. I asked him what he thought about me while he was away, and he couldn't answer. Then we said stupid things."

"Well, it sounds like he's been through something pretty devastating. Maybe you needed to be more patient."

Abby hated to admit it, but Susan was right.

"I know, I just . . . all I could think about were these last three weeks, wondering if he was dead or alive or coming back or if he—"

Abby was glad to talk to Susan, but she could never get used to confiding her deepest thoughts to anyone. What she was really wondering was if he ever really cared about her.

Susan tried to console her. "I'm sure he understood. This is all just bad timing."

"We said awful things . . . I told him I don't know why he bothered to come back, and he told me walking away is what I do best, and then I told him he had big problems. Next thing I knew, Chuny ran out with the news about Luka. He's taking it hard, harder than I am—and I dated the guy for a year," she said, choking back grief over Luka and pain over Carter.

"He seems 'off,' Abby. He hasn't been right since his grandmother died. Maybe before."

"No, something's different. He's different. I don't know why I ever got involved."

Susan rested her hand on Abby's shoulder.

"Abby, he can't go to the Congo, it's too dangerous. You can't let him go."

"What can I do?"

Susan looked at her, and Abby could see what she was thinking.

"No, I can't."

"Abby, you can head him off in Paris," Susan said, looking over Abby's shoulder at the paper on the table.

"Susan I can't get on a plane—"

"Do you have a passport?"

"Yes, somewhere—I haven't used it since Richard's sister got married in London. But I can't go."

Abby spun the paper around some more, and her voice grew quieter.

"He doesn't want me around right now. I can feel it," Abby said. "And I'm not sure I want to see him either."

"Things just got off to a bad start this morning. He's probably forgotten about it by now."

"And if he hasn't? I just can't jump on a plane and track him down. I just can't. It's . . . crazy."

"You would if it were your mother or brother—and you have many times."

"That's because they were sick or in trouble."

Susan sat down across from her and touched the back of Abby's hand with her fingertips: "Abby, I saw Carter today. He's in trouble."

Susan was worried. Abby looked at the itinerary on the table, looked at Susan, and back at the itinerary again. She grabbed it, flew out her chair and shouted, "I must be out of my mind!" as she headed toward the door.

"Good luck," Susan yelled after her. "Call me!" she added, but Abby was already out the door.

ABBY TOOK THE el to her apartment, nervously tapping her foot the whole way. Once home, she quickly packed an overnight bag with some toiletries, a change of clothes, and extra underwear. She found her passport and grabbed all her credit cards, hoping that one of them would have a credit limit large enough for the last-minute ticket to Paris. She closed the light and opened her front door, and just before she ventured out into the bright hall, she ran back in and opened the drawer where she kept her underwear. This time, she pulled from the bottom, where she kept her "less-respectable" ones. The ones she saved only for special times with him.

She grabbed a bra colored a pastel shade of lavender with demi cups and a tiny white satin butterfly that rested between them. There were matching panties with the same satin butterflies where they fell on her hips. She tucked them in her bag and hurried downstairs hoping to flag down a roaming taxi to take her to the airport. In the cab, she remembered the last time she wore them.

_  
CARTER HAD WAITED for her outside the hospital after her shift and startled her as she was on her way to meet her AA sponsor. He had a strange look on his face when he said, "You know__, right?" and made her confess that she was indeed aware that he had an engagement ring four nights before when they dined among a sea of empty tables at the beautiful downtown restaurant he bought out to ensure their privacy. He confessed to her that he didn't go through with it because "it didn't feel right" and that "something wasn't working." He accused her of a "quick fix" by trying a nicotine patch to quit smoking and scheduling this meeting with her AA sponsor. She tried to let him off the hook. She said if he was sick of her, she wouldn't blame him. But that made him angry—angrier than she'd ever seen him—and he stormed off to his Jeep Wrangler. His fury confused her, but moments later he pulled up behind her. He stepped out of the vehicle, and they approached each other gingerly. And in a rare moment, she surrendered herself to him. He brought her close and rested his head on hers and held her tight._

_He broke away and looked in her eyes, brushing strands of her long blond hair away from her face with his fingertips._

"_You'd better go if she's waiting," he said._

"_Come by later . . . okay?" she asked tentatively._

_He touched her face. "Okay"_

_He seemed sad, and it scared her._

_She sat in a booth at a local coffee shop three blocks from County and a million miles away from her AA sponsor—a lovely chatty woman about five years her senior. They ordered sandwiches and shared a basket of fries, but Abby could not focus and made excuses to get home quickly. She offered to pay for the entire meal for getting her sponsor out for nothing. Having mentored Abby for almost 7 years, the woman knew better. _

"_Abby, if something's wrong, you can tell me," she offered._

_But closed off as Abby was, she didn't mention her relationship with Carter. Instead, Abby said she was tired from her rough shift and suggested that her fourth day without a cigarette was making her fidgety._

_Abby arrived back at her apartment at 8:30. She quickly showered, put on her lavender underwear and covered them with a soft gray blouse and black pants. And then she waited . . . and waited. At 10:05 she called his apartment. He wasn't there, but she spoke to his machine with a lump in her throat, though she forced a casual tone: "Hi, it's me. I thought you were going to come by tonight . . . I guess you changed your mind . . . You're probably tired . . . Well, okay, I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."_

_At 11:10, she took off her blouse and pants and tossed a thin satin robe over her lavender butterfly underwear. She lay on her bed with the phone next to her and fell asleep. _

_When Carter arrived close to midnight Abby was still asleep, her robe open just enough to reveal the pretty lavender underwear. He watched her for several minutes. He loved her like this, when he could imagine her to be anything. _

_He left his coat on the couch and kicked off his shoes, he pulled off his sweater and the shirt underneath and moved over to the bed and climbed on slowly. His weight on the mattress jostled her, and she woke up. Before she could speak, he cupped her face in his hands and stared at her for a long moment. She didn't quite understand the look on his face. His thumbs swept her cheeks gently, and he kissed her. _

"_I'm not sick of you. How can you think that?"_

"_I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she said._

"_I don't know either."_

_She lay back on her pillow, her robe spilling open, and he rested on his side propped up on one arm. With his free hand, he played absentmindedly with the tiny satin butterfly that rested between her breasts._

"_Where have you been? I called your apartment."_

"_Downstairs in front of your building—in my car."_

"_All this time?"_

"_Couple of hours."_

"_What's wrong?"_

"_I don't know what's wrong."_

_They were quiet for while, until she said softly, "I understand if you want someone else . . . someone different."_

"_I don't want anyone else!" He almost shouted the words but softened his tone when he saw he startled her. "Understand that, okay? I just want you to—"_

_He paused and looked away from her._

"_To what?" she asked nervously. _

"_Nothing."_

_He moved closer and leaned over her and looked down into her eyes searching for something. She looked up at him, trying hard to connect, desperate to understand his mood. _

_Then he lowered his head and touched his lips to the base of her throat and felt her pulse quicken, and then kissed the valley just above the butterfly. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him, happy to end the discussion that had begun to frighten her. He slipped the thin satin robe off her arms, and they made love._

_It would be the last time._

_They blamed it on their schedules. Sure they'd grab a quick meal here or there and they'd talk on the telephone. But they were mostly working opposite shifts and never seemed to connect. However, that morning when Carter's grandmother died and her brother Eric turned up, the distance between them grew obvious—if not to her, then to him._

WHY SHE BROUGHT along the lavender butterfly undergarments she didn't know. However, she knew that seeing them on her body excited him. Why she cared was a mystery to her. She was angry with him—but then again, she missed him already.

At Chicago's O'Hare International Airport, Abby purchased a coach seat to Paris and hurried to board the plane. By her calculation, she was only an hour or two behind Carter. And since he had a three- to four-hour layover before his flight to Kinshasa, she was confident she would find him in time to . . . well, she didn't know exactly. All she knew was she needed to see him before he got on that plane to the Congo.

Stuck in the middle seat as her penalty for last-minute travel, Abby leaned her head back and tried to get some sleep. Luckily, she was tired, since Carter woke her at 5:30 in the morning when he returned from Kisangani. She couldn't fall back to sleep after he left her apartment so abruptly—at her request really. As she napped, she remembered the look on his face when she asked for her key back. Pain and frustration was visible even through the bluish smoke from her cigarette that curled in the air between them.

Abby couldn't remember getting off the plane, but suddenly she was in the waiting room of the airport. The air seemed filled with smoke, which she thought was odd and assumed Parisians to be more tolerant of nicotine and tar than her fellow Americans. She didn't know why all the faces seemed hazy to her. But she spotted him, and she thought he must have changed his clothes because she remembered he was wearing a denim jacket when he left. Now he had on a lab coat over his scrubs. He ran to her as soon as he saw her. The only thing she could feel were his lips on her, and she knew that everything was going to be okay . . .

"Excuse me."

A voice broke in.

"_Excuuuse_ me."

It was coming from next to her and sounded annoyed.

"We've landed, and I'd like to get off the plane, please."

Abby shook the sleep from her head. She was groggy and surprised to still be on an airplane. The woman in the window seat was yelling to her, and the businessman on the aisle was gone.

"You're blocking my way, and I'd like to get off please!"

It all came back to her now. She unbuckled her seat belt and started to exit the row, but the impatient woman next to her wedged past her, spinning Abby around until she plopped down in the seat again.

Abby sat there as all the passengers filed out and the crew assisted those needing wheelchairs.

And when Abby was the only one left on the plane, a handsome young flight attendant came over to her.

"Mademoiselle?"

Abby slumped in her seat. "Can't I just wait here until you're ready to go back?"

ABBY TOOK THE long walk down the gangway, running her hands along the fiberglass walls just to assure herself that she had actually made the trip. When she emerged in the gate area of Paris's Charles de Gaulle airport, her stomach began to twist.

She scanned the infinite rows of seats and wondered if she would ever find him in this vast place. She approached a video monitor and tried to make sense of it. She found the number of the flight bound for Kinshasa and checked it against the notes Carter made in the lounge at the hospital. "FLIGHT 1390 TO KINSHASA-GATE 22" the monitor said. It wasn't leaving for another hour or two, but she headed there anyway hoping to find Carter. When she arrived at Gate 22, no one was manning it. But a woman was preparing to open the adjacent stand.

"Can you tell me if Dr. John Carter is on Flight 1390?" Abby asked, crossing her fingers that the woman would understand her.

"I'm sorry, I am not working that flight, this is 961," she said, in clear, unaccented English while pointing to the board behind her.

"I am trying to locate a passenger on 1390. It is very important."

"Sorry, even if that were my flight, I couldn't do that—security, you know," answered the woman.

Of course, she couldn't; Abby knew that but persisted.

"Please, I flew all the way from the United States. I need to talk to Dr. Carter before he gets on that flight."

Abby noticed how beautiful the woman was—chestnut brown hair with light brown eyes and perfectly applied make-up. Abby ran her hands through her own hair and suddenly was conscious of how messy and unattractive she must look.

"Why don't you wait here until boarding—or I can page him for you."

_Page him? Good idea._

"Yes, could you page him please? It's 'Dr. John Carter'—C-A-R-T-E-R," she spelled carefully.

The woman picked up the page phone and spoke into it. Soon the airport echoed with the sound of his name in English and in French. The message instructed him to come to the gate. Abby thanked the woman. She could do nothing now but wait.

"_I'll call you when I get to Paris,"_ he had said as he stormed away from her, and she hoped he meant it. Abby spied a pay phone and used her credit card to dial her answering machine at home. As promised, he did. The sound of his voice on the machine did not make her feel better.

_"Abby, it's me. Are you there? Pick up . . ."_

Her hand trembled as she heard him speak.

_"Well, I'm sorry I didn't catch you; I know you were upset when I left. But if you are there, and you're punishing me for walking away from you . . . well . . . maybe that's the whole problem. Look, my flight to Paris made good time. I'm going to hurry and try to catch a flight to Rome that connects to Kinshasa rather than hang around the airport for the direct flight . . ."_

Abby's heart sank fast with the realization that Carter wasn't even in Paris any longer.

"_Abby, I don't know how long it'll take to find Luka,"_ his message continued._ "Then there's all the red tape to get him home. I don't know when I'll be back. You're probably so angry at me right now that you don't care what I do, but that's okay. I'm too tired to fight."_

The tone in his voice was angry and defeated at the same time.

_"Look, I know you're upset about Luka, and I know you're upset with me. You probably have good reason to be. I think you and I . . . we need a little time apart. I mean a little more time apart. Obviously, you agree—you proved that this morning."_

Abby's heart was pounding. She quickly replayed her first waking moments when she opened her eyes to see him contemplating her from the edge of her bed after not having seen each other for weeks. Although he tried to apologize for ignoring her and walking away from her weeks before, she would have none of it and requested her key back. But instead of trying to convince her otherwise, begging her forgiveness, kissing her and telling her how much he loved her as she'd hoped, he simply stood and dropped the key in the china bowl atop her dresser—and he left.

And now, his voice on her answering machine was barely above a whisper. She heard pain.

"_Abby . . . I don't know what's next, you know? I'll call you when I've found him and this is all over . . . I guess."_

She had the feeling her life had changed, and she was the last one to know it. Her mind raced as the rest of her messages played.

BEEP.

_Abby, it's Haleh. Could you work for me Friday night? You owe me from last Thursday, remember? Give me a call._

BEEP.

_"Ms. Lockhart, this is Chicago Power & Light, we have a question about your account."_

That's all she needed—to worry about bill collectors. She went to hang up.

BEEP.

_"Abby . . ."_

It was Carter's voice again. Her stomach wound into a knot, and her throat tightened as if someone's hands were around it.

_"It's me again. I just want you to know—"_

There was silence. She heard him breathing, but no words until . . .

_"—nothing, nothing. Take care of yourself."_

And it clicked. Her answering machine gave the short beeps indicating the end of messages, and the call broke off.

Abby hung up slowly. Yes, this morning she was angry with him for having left for Africa three weeks prior with hardly a word. Who wouldn't be? But now she was angry with herself for not seeing that he was upset and confused. She shivered. She was alone in a huge airport in a foreign country thousands of miles from Carter and only inches from tears.

She leaned against a wall, and wished she could start all over again.

_  
THEY SAW EACH other that morning in the most unlikely of places—the auditorium where the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was under way. But it wasn't until later that evening, after the trials of the day had taken their toll, that fate had brought them to the same threshold once more. When Abby entered Doc Magoo's to order coffee, she heard him call to her over her shoulder from one of the booths. She joined him, and they talked and shared and became confidantes and supporters, bound together from that moment on by . . . ice cream._

_She teased that one of their rules would be that he had to splurge with her. He laughed and gave in to her pretty smile. He handed her the menu and told her to pick for him. Shortly thereafter the waitress returned. _

"_Can I get you anything else?"_

"_I'd like a hot fudge sundae with chocolate ice cream, please," Abby answered. She noticed him watching her lips as she ordered._

"_Sure. And for you, sir?"_

_He held up his hand. "No, nothing for me."_

"_Hey, we had a deal!" Abby reminded._

"_Okay," he laughed and deferred to her._

"_He'll have a banana split."_

_The waitress walked away with the order._

"_Banana split?" he asked._

"_Yeah, it's good for you—there's fruit in it."_

_He grinned, and she smiled back at him and found herself falling into his warm, chocolate eyes._

"_So, how does this sponsor thing work?" Carter asked a few moments later._

"_Well, we talk about problems you have with the program, and you let me know if you feel tempted, and I help get you through it."_

"_So that means I should call you if I have a problem or a question?"_

"_Yes."_

"_So, I guess that means I'll need your phone number."_

"_I guess that's right."_

_He grabbed his newspaper, which he had placed next to him on the seat, and took a pen from his pocket just as the server placed old-fashioned sundae dishes in front of them._

"_Well . . .?" he said, his pen poised to take down what would become the most important digits of his life._

_She lifted the bright-red cherry from atop her sundae by the stem, tilted her head back and held it poised over her lips. Then she rattled off the numbers quickly, "5-5-5-0-1-1-0," before plopping the fruit in her mouth and plucking off the stem._

_He scribbled the numbers but never took his eyes off her. _

"_Want yours?" she asked._

"_What?" he said, realizing he was staring at her._

_She pointed to the banana split in front of him. "Are you going to eat your cherry?"_

"_Huh?" He looked at his dessert. "No, be my guest." And he pushed the dish closer to her._

"_Thanks," she said as she plucked the cherry from his dessert under his gaze._

_As he watched her, he could feel the warmth rising from his neck up to his cheeks._

"_Don't sponsors take an oath to be available any hour of the day or night?" he asked._

"_Oath? There's no oath. This isn't the Boy Scouts."_

_He looked a little disappointed, and she found herself saying, "Yes, call me if you need me, day . . . or night."_

_She blushed a little into her sundae dish, and he noticed._

"_What if you're not home?" he asked._

"_Leave me a message."_

"_You wouldn't risk my new-found sobriety, would you?"_

_She smiled. "Okay, okay. You can have my cell phone, too. It's 5-5-5-6-7-6-7. But don't abuse it."_

"_I promise I'll keep it off bathroom walls."_

_He looked at his writing on the newspaper and then looked at her warm eyes, and then he smiled back. He seemed to have words on his lips._

"_What?" she asked._

"_Nothing."_

"_What!"_

"_No, nothing."_

"_Tell me."_

_He stared in her eyes._

"_You have . . . nice . . . numbers."_

_She chuckled. "Thanks—I think." Her cheeks grew warm._

_He smiled at her, and she at him. They reached for their spoons and hunkered close to their desserts. And as they savored every bit of creamy sweetness, they talked . . . and talked . . . and talked. Soon, her heart—so heavy from the death of a preemie in the ER—felt less heavy. His head—so burdened with his career on the line—felt less burdened. And somewhere inside they touched each other that evening._

ABBY DROPPED INTO the only empty seat in a long row of chairs filled with passengers awaiting flights. She watched the old man across from her fiddle with the brim of his cap as he read a newspaper that rested across his legs. She closed her eyes and leaned her face into her hands and tried to gather her thoughts. First, she'd need to make her way back to the Air France desk, purchase a ticket back to Chicago, go to the—

"Abby?"

Startled by the sound of her name, Abby yanked her hands away from her eyes and looked up. She saw the same elderly man reading a newspaper as before. He felt her eyes on him and pulled his cap down closer to his brow. Mistaken, Abby exhaled and slumped back in her chair.

"Abby?"

This time she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around, and it was him.

_Next . . ._

_Chapter 2: Cold Heat_


	2. Cold Heat

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

**_Chapter Two: Cold Heat_**

**_Rating: PG-13 with very strong cautioning for romantic situations._**

**_Summary: Carter and Abby found each other in Paris but they felt an ocean apart. How did they get to this awful place in their relationship and what will it take to find their way back? Even the strongest love can show a crack. The test is the strength of the bond. _**

**_Disclaimer: Of course, I claim no rights to the ER characters etc._**

**_Author's Note: Did I mention how nice it is to hear your lovely comments? Second of nine chapters is below. I hope you get lost in it the way I did._**

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FOR HOURS DURING the flight from Chicago to Paris, Abby pictured this moment: Carter would see her, be so moved by her gesture, take her in his arms, apologize for walking away from her—not once but _twice_—and beg her forgiveness. Then, she would know finally that he didn't mean to leave, that he cared about her, and this nagging feeling that she had ruined everything would disappear in the warmth of his arms.

Instead, he looked at her and said, "What are you doing here?"

He didn't even reach for her, and so she put up her defenses.

"I listened to your message," she said as she folded her arms across her chest and leaned her weight on one hip. "What happened to the flight to Rome?"

"I missed it. I walked around a while, and then I called you back."

"I know."

"So what are you doing here? Is this about Luka? I told you I'll find him."

"I wanted to find you . . . to tell you that the Alliance called, and they said will claim Luka . . . you know . . . his body. It's not safe to go there. "

For a moment, Carter thought she might say that she came after him because she loved him and was sorry she asked for her key back and gave his stuff back. If she would only say she missed him these past few weeks and couldn't let him go again. If only she'd come one step closer and look up at him with pouty lips, he'd put a kiss on them. But she didn't.

"You came all this way just to tell me that?"

His eyes grew cold, and she shrank from them.

"I didn't want you to go to the Congo if you didn't have to."

They may as well have been an ocean apart.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere tonight. I traded my ticket to this flight for the one to Rome, and now this one is booked solid. I have to wait until the next flight to Kinshasa in the morning."

"Too bad," she said, deliberately allowing him to interpret her meaning as either sarcastic or sympathetic.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

"Where am I staying?" Abby hadn't thought of that. She pictured finding him in the airport and convincing him to go back with her. She thought they'd be back in her apartment in time to order a pizza and crawl into her bed.

"I don't have a place yet."

"Well my flight's at the crack of dawn. I guess I'll just get a hotel room close by. I think there's a Hilton on the highway right outside the airport."

Carter headed toward the exit, and Abby stood flabbergasted. She didn't understand. She flew all this way, and he was so matter of fact—as if it were every day that he ran into her in the Paris airport.

He stopped and looked back at her. "Look, I'm sorry. I've been awake for almost 48 hours, I'm not thinking straight. Come with me and let's go get some sleep, okay?"

They jumped in a taxi and headed toward a small hotel just on the outskirts of the airport.

"Paris is beautiful," she mumbled to break the silence.

"If you call this Paris . . . we're on a highway," he mumbled back.

"So?"

"So it looks like a highway anywhere—we could be in Oklahoma."

_  
CARTER ASKED KATIE, his travel agent, to find two one-way tickets to Tulsa, being that Luka was not going to accompany Abby to retrieve her mother, who "bottomed out" in an Oklahoma motel. Luka offered to "make some calls," but Abby needed to go to her. With Carter's help, they retrieved Maggie in a sorry state and made their way back to Chicago in a rental car. Only just as she said good night to him they discovered Maggie unconscious, most of the life drifting out of her from an overdose of over-the-counter drugs she picked up along the way. Carter raced her to the hospital, and he and Luka worked on her with needles and tubes—and daggers for each other in those days—as Abby cried. Once resuscitated, Maggie was locked in the psych ward on suicide watch. Luka came to see Abby then. She told him he was right, that Maggie needed more help than she was able to provide. They went back to Luka's hotel. He patted her on the shoulder and told her it would be okay, and went to sleep. But Abby knew better. She lay on top of the covers staring at the ceiling, wondering if sleep would ever overtake her again._

_Back at the hospital, Carter retreated into the lounge with his cell phone, sat on the couch, and dialed Abby's home number. When there was no answer, he tried the alternative._

_The vibrate mode on her cell phone jarred her, and she reached down into her bag on the floor next to the bed._

"_Hello." She practically whispered, her head hanging low off the bed so as not to wake Luka._

"_Hey, it's me, Car—"_

"_Hi, John," she said before he finished identifying himself. She swung her legs off the bed and tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door quietly. "Where are you?" she asked._

"_Working. I had a shift tonight."_

_She sat on the bathroom floor and leaned her shoulders again the cool porcelain of the bathtub. "You did? I'm sorry. I didn't realize. You must be exhausted."_

"_No, I'm fine. I got plenty of sleep last night." He lied. He stayed awake in the adjoining motel room in the event Abby needed him. "I checked on Maggie a little while ago. Her vitals are good, and she's sleeping now. She should be okay."_

"_Until the next time."_

_He felt so sorry for her. _

"_What's going to happen now?" _

"_Probably a locked ward—Legaspi said she'll evaluate her again in the morning. I guess I'll find out more tomorrow."_

_Chuny startled Carter when she peeked into the lounge. "Carter, LOL with a hip fracture on the way. ETA in five."_

_"I'll be there."_

_"Ambulance?" Abby asked. She hoped not. His voice was beginning to relax her._

_"Yeah."_

_"I guess you'd better get back to work." She hoped he wouldn't._

_"I guess I'd better. Well, I was just thinking about you . . . you and your mom, I mean. And . . . uhh . . . I just wanted to make sure you were okay."_

_"Thanks, Carter . . . for everything." Her throat started to tighten._

_"__No problem." He didn't want to hang up so fast. _

"_Abby?"_

"_Yeah?"_

_He spoke softly in her ear, "You know, if you need anything . . ." _

_She realized what she needed was for him to stay on the phone with her and keep her company. She was alone locked in Luka's bathroom. He slept soundly on the other side of the door despite the fact that her mother lay close to death hours earlier. She bit her quivering lower lip and stared up at the ceiling struggling to keep tears from overflowing her lids._

"_Abby?"_

_She didn't answer, and he grew concerned when he thought he heard a sniffle._

"_Abby?" He touched the mouthpiece of his cell phone with his fingertips._

_She swallowed hard so she could speak. "I know," she said, but it was only a choked whisper soaked in tears._

_He wanted—no needed—to help her._

"_Look, Abby, I could—"_

_She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "I'll be fine, thanks."_

_He'd have to take her word for it. What else could he do? He didn't dare ask, but he knew she was with Luka. Though if that were the case, why did she sound so . . . alone?_

"_I'll talk to you tomorrow?" It should have been a statement, but he asked it as a question, needing to hear as much for his sake as for hers that they'd connect the following day._

"_Sure . . . tomorrow." It was easier to control her voice if she spoke one word at a time._

_They said good-bye, and he folded his cell phone gently and stroked the aluminum housing with his fingertip. Without realizing it, he rested it on his chest in the vicinity of his heart. And 7 miles, 800 yards, 2 feet, 3 inches away from him in the bathroom of Luka's hotel room, she did the same._

"I'D LIKE TO see Europe one day," she said just to break the silence of the cab ride. "I came to London with Richard for his sister's wedding. I took a week's vacation so we could do some sightseeing. When we got there on Saturday, he told me he had class on Monday. So we came right back. His class turned out to be date with a flight attendant he met on the way." She grew silent and turned away and watched out the open taxi window.

He stared at her profile as she gazed out and watched as the warm Parisian breeze blew her silky hair in long streamers behind her. Her eyes were half-closed to shield them from the force of the breeze, and it accentuated her lashes.

"MONSIEUR, ONE ROOM or two?" asked the registrar when Carter and Abby approached the desk of the small hotel near the airport.

He looked at her, and it stung. He wished he hadn't.

"One."

She held her tongue until they entered the room, and then she could no longer.

"That's it? I came all this way, and I get, _Abby what are you doing here_?"

"What? What do you want me to say?"

"You know, you always blame me for being negative, but you gave up first."

"I gave up? You asked for your key and left my stuff in a plastic bag in the lounge for everyone to see. Remember that?"

"After you disappeared with no notice. Was I supposed to wait around and wonder if you were ever coming back?"

"Why wouldn't I come back? I just wanted to go to Africa to feel like I was really _doing_ something. I just needed to get away—"

"From _me_? You were trying to get away from _me_?"

"No, from my _life_!"

"Well stupid me, I thought I was part of your life."

Her remark brought things to a halt.

"You made your feelings plain, Abby."

"So did you when you came back from Africa and sat there on my bed—"

"What's wrong with that? I came directly to your apartment to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I missed you."

"Because you missed me or because it had been weeks since you'd been with a woman?"

He glared at her with unblinking eyes and spoke slowly through clenched teeth struggling hard to control his anger.

"You think I showed up at your apartment for _sex_! "

She wished she hadn't said it, but she was committed now. They were fighting, and she didn't know how to get out of it.

"I don't know. You weren't interested in me at all before you left. You barely told me you were leaving, and then suddenly you show up at my apartment in the middle of the night! What was I supposed to think?"

"You were supposed to think—"

His nostrils flared with temper.

"Never mind!" he said. He unzipped his bag and threw it on the floor. He pulled a few items out, scattering most of them. Then he stormed past her into the bathroom and slammed the door.

"I didn't mean that." She stood waiting for him outside the bathroom when he emerged bare-chested, wearing only a pair of jersey drawstring pants—the way she'd seen him sleep dozens of time. They hung low on his waist, and drew her eyes to the thin line of dark, distinctly male hair beginning at his abdomen and continuing below the drawstring.

She held her hands out to block his way out of the bathroom.

"Did you hear me?"

He walked around her. She turned to follow.

"I didn't mean what I said about why you came to my apartment, okay?"

He didn't answer.

"Okay?"

She couldn't stand the cold shoulder. Maggie would do that.

"Carter?"

"Okay," he answered without looking at her. But it wasn't okay. "It's been a long day for both of us. Let's get some rest," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I'm exhausted," she agreed.

She went into the bathroom and a short while later she came out still in her jeans and knit pullover.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"I thought you were tired?"

"I am."

"They why don't you get ready for bed?"

She looked down and scratched at the inside of her elbow and mumbled, "I . . . I didn't bring anything to sleep in." She seemed so childlike, and in that moment he felt bad for her.

He reached into his bag and took out a clean white T-shirt.

"Here. It's been to the Congo and back, but it's clean."

"Thanks." She took it from him and retreated to the bathroom.

Carter looked out the window and saw nothing but concrete and asphalt. Off in the distance, the Arch de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and all the beauty of Paris were just out of reach.

When Abby first came to the ER as a med student, it was her eagerness to learn that caught his eye. But before he could discover who was behind the sweet face and smart demeanor, a stranger stole his soul by plunging a knife in his back and letting his courage and self-esteem seep out onto the floor. His body survived, but his mind had a secret—a weakness—that she discovered before he did. And when she did, he accused her of betraying him, though in truth she saved his life.

She remained the one person who could see inside him. And as they spent time together and grew to be friends, he started to need her. But by then she was with Luka. Nevertheless, when he discovered the sadness she carried inside her, he tried to take away her pain as she had done for him. He wanted nothing more—except maybe to go for pizza every once in a while and perhaps a movie. Oh, and if she would let him kiss her that would be nice, too. And if they suddenly found themselves naked and she invited him to touch her body, he wouldn't mind that either. But then he'd shake himself into reality and remind himself once more that Abby was with Luka, a handsome and talented physician beloved by the staff—especially the women.

He opened the window fully and sat on the sill serenaded by the sounds of highway traffic as she got ready for bed in the bathroom. It was not the first time he'd waited for her to change.

_WHEN HE ARRIVED at her apartment the night she agreed to accompany him to the charity ball she was dressed in black pants and was distressed to see he'd donned a tuxedo. She stormed into her bedroom to scrounge for something more formal to wear and closed the door with such force that it slowly rebounded and crept open again—enough for him to glimpse the black lace bra she wore beneath. She emerged in a pink satin bridesmaid's gown and printed shawl—huffing and puffing at the spectacle she made. He knew then that he wanted her—the girl in the puffy pink dress. But he thought she looked beautiful, and all that evening she felt so good in his arms._

_Afterward in the limo they agreed they had a good time despite running into her ex-husband Richard, who recognized the dress from his sister's wedding. In a few quick turns, they were in front of her apartment again. He stepped out of the car and held onto the sleeve of her cloth coat to help her out. She slipped a little and her arm came out of her coat, and she spun around and the other came out, too._

"_Whoa. Haven't you had enough dancing for one night?" he joked._

"_I'm sorry," she laughed, her cheeks burning with embarrassment and the rumbles of uncontrollable giggles coming on. "I'm sorry," she said again, laughing harder. He joined her, their cackles approaching canine decibels._

"_Come on, it's freezing. I'll walk you upstairs."_

_She grabbed her coat and held it in front of her rolled up in a ball and entered the vestibule of her building._

_At the base of her stairs, he bowed deeply and swooped his arm indicating she should ascend the stairs ahead of him. She headed up, and he followed right behind her._

_Rrrrrrrrriiiiippppp._

_They stopped._

"_What was that?" Abby asked._

"_Uhhh, nothing," Carter said, as he lifted his shoe off the train of her pink satin dress._

"_I heard something."_

"_No, nothing." He began to laugh. "Keep going," he said as he surveyed the damage his shoe caused._

"_Carter!"_

"_I stepped on your dress."_

"_You stepped on my dress?" She tried to sound upset, but instead she laughed._

"_I'm sorry." His shoulders shuddered with giggles as he saw he had torn away the skirt of her dress from the bodice, broadly revealing the back of her sheer pantyhose through which her pink bikini underwear could be seen._

"_Did it rip?" Abby said while straining to look over her shoulder._

"_Not much," said Carter, struggling to suppress his laughter while staring at the huge hole in her dress._

_Just then, the outer door to the building opened, and Mr. Flanagan, Abby's 80-year-old downstairs neighbor, shuffled in from the outside. The open door sent of rush of cold air up Abby exposed bottom. She stiffened in horror as realized what a gaping hole there must be. Carter jumped in front of her exposed rear end to shield her from the old man's view. _

_Abby tried her best to change her tone from hysterical laughter to quiet dignity: "Good evening, Mr. Flanagan." _

"_Sir." Carter nodded out of respect, careful not to move from his precarious position._

_The old man looked skeptically at the two of them and shuffled toward his apartment. When Mr. Flanagan closed his door, Carter and Abby exploded in giggles._

"_Oh my God, I have to move," she squealed._

"_No you don't," he laughed._

"_Yes, I have to move and change my name . . . "_

"_Don't worry he didn't see anything." Carter chuckled louder knowing that wasn't true._

" _. . . I have to move and change my name and leave the country—I definitely have to leave the country."_

_Their faces were red, and they could hardly breathe from giggling so much._

"_Stop laughing," she said, unable to control her own hysterics._

"_I'm not laughing."_

"_This is serious. I can't live here anymore—"_

_And just then they heard a noise below them. They realized it was the sound of a key in the lock once more._

"_Run!" they said in unison in a whispered shout._

_He turned and grabbed Abby's fallen train, and they bolted up the stairs._

_She quickly put her key in her door and ran into her apartment not realizing he was holding the back of her skirt. Down she went in her doorway, taking him with her._

_They landed on the floor, their faces red, tears falling down their cheeks, unable to catch their breath to speak in anything but little squeaks._

_Finally, their laughter subsided as he realized he was on top of her, his weight on his arms. She lay beneath him, out of breath from laughter, her chest rising and falling as her lungs filled with much-needed air. And as their breathing slowed he looked down at her soft brown eyes, curvy lips, and delicate neck. The urge to kiss her overwhelmed him and caught him off guard. He flung himself backward off of her and landed hard on the floor, hitting his head against the doorframe. She lifted herself up on her elbows._

"_Are you okay?"_

"_Yes . . . uhhh . . . fine," he said, his pulse still racing, "How 'bout you?"_

"_I'm fine," though her cheeks felt warm._

_He stood and reached down and to help her up. She was careful not to turn her back to him._

"_I'm sorry. I'd really like to pay for the dress," Carter said, his pulse finally returning to normal._

"_It's not necessary," she said, suddenly feeling a little awkward. "I told you, it was a bridesmaid's dress. I'm lucky I ever got to wear it again."_

"_Well, the next wedding you're in, I'm buying you the dress—I insist."_

"_Okay, next wedding, the dress is on you."_

EVER SINCE THAT night, he hoped one day to hear her say "I love you, John" and to see the excitement in her face when he walked in the room. Almost three years later, the hope was still there, but that's all it was—hope. It was finally sinking in that she didn't need him.

She emerged from the bathroom and crawled swiftly onto the bed. He turned out the light and followed. They lay side by side silently staring toward the ceiling in the darkness as a warm summer breeze blew the sheer curtains into the room.

She broke the stillness.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Uh, huh."

"When you called my machine back, what were you going to say?"

"What do you mean?"

"You called me back from the airport and said, _'I just want you to know . . .'_ Know what?"

He thought for a long while, and then he said: "I don't remember."

The room fell silent again. She never felt as far away from him as she did at that moment. She broke the silence once again but this time with a tiny sniffle that her teary eye caused. It softened him.

"Look, I know it was a big deal for you to come all this way," he said softly.

"I didn't like how we left it. I . . . I thought you would come back to Chicago with me."

_There, I said it_, she thought.

His interest was piqued: "You did? Why?"

_Why? Isn't it enough that I hopped on a plane to stop him from leaving?_ And she grew defensive again. 

"Well, for one thing, Kerry's really shorthanded—what with you running off and Luka . . . gone," Abby answered.

_That's why? She's worried who'll cover my shift?_ She always seemed to disappoint him. He took a deep breath.

"Well, I can't just let Luka . . . rot there."

"Carter—"

"Abby I've got to go. I'll be back soon."

"John—"

"Let's get some sleep."

He leaned over to her, and they kissed quickly—more out of habit than affection. They were each afraid of _not_ kissing, of what it would say about their relationship, of the finality of it. But Abby put her hand on his cheek and nudged his face back toward her. She looked in his eyes, trying to create a spark, almost daring him to kiss her again. But he was a thousand miles away. The pain started to build in her stomach and showed up as a tear in the corner of her eye.

Her damp eyes brought him back to the moment. He was frustrated, but he did not want to cause her pain. She had enough people in her life to do that for her—and she created plenty of her own. But Carter's fuse was short this evening, and his mind was yelling for escape. Nevertheless, when she slipped her hand down from his cheek and let it rest on his bare chest, he decided to kiss her again. It was always easy for his body to respond to hers.

His kiss was hard, a little angry she thought. His lips were tight and his hands, which he moved to her waist, were rough. But she clutched him, not wanting to pass up the opportunity to be close to him for the first time since before his grandmother died. He moved his lips to her neck. His face was scratchy with growth from the night before.

It was less than 36 hours ago that he was delayed at the airport in London on the way home to Chicago—to _her_. He took advantage of the time to wash and shave in anticipation of seeing her again. How naïve of him to think he could walk back into her life after the way he left for Africa. He knew he was wrong. He even thought he should try harder to make it up to her. But it was all the _trying_ that made him tired.

But here she was in the cramped Paris airport hotel, the City of Lights out their window. A T-shirt of his and a pair of white underpants was all she wore as she waited for him to kiss her some more. He did. And quickly the T-shirt she had just donned came off and then all their clothes were gone. And without much ceremony, they fell against each other.

It had been weeks since they'd shared a bed—maybe months when you add it all up. However, this time was different from any other time. She could feel his anger. He seemed quiet, brooding, perhaps _cold_ might even be the word—so unlike their usual lovemaking, in which his body was strong but his touches were tender and punctuated by loud sounds she grew to understand as his language of pleasure. But he spoke none of it tonight. She kept her eyes closed, afraid of what she might see in his face.

_She can't even look at me_, Carter thought. Normally, when they were this close to each other, he'd meet her eyes and try as hard as he could to make her see how much he loved her. And when she'd look back at him in those peak moments, her arms clutching him closer, he was almost sure she loved him just as much—_almost_. Hours later, under the cover of darkness, with the complete abandon that only deep sleep affords, Abby would slide her naked body along the cool sheets over to where he lay. Once he felt her soft skin against his, he'd gather her close and fall back to sleep with his lips tucked into her hair.

For the first time since she'd been intimate with him Abby could not relax enough to experience any satisfaction and just waited as if she were alone. She wanted to tell him how much she needed to feel close to him right now, but she couldn't—she never could. Usually under the cover of darkness when she needed to feel close to him, she'd pretend she was asleep and slide her naked body along the cool sheets over to where he lay . . .

He loved her—so much he could feel her on his skin even when she wasn't there. And he'd wake each day hopeful it would be the one when the wall around her would come tumbling down. But hope didn't flow from him anymore; it froze like ice and cracked into little pieces, and he brushed them away. It was resentment that filled him tonight—and pain and futility. And she could feel it. He made her feel it.

After, he recoiled from her like a distant stranger. Abby reached down and grasped a corner of the blanket that barely covered her nakedness and rolled away from him to hide her face. She stared at the wall opposite the bed. And, softly, she began to cry.

_Next—_

_Chapter Three: Hop, Skip, Jump _

_The action begins . . ._


	3. Hop, Skip, Jump

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

_**Chapter Three: Hop, Skip, Jump**_

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**_Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent)_**

**_Summary: A change of pace, a new locale, the adventure begins. More missing moments plus my personal all-time favorite Carby kiss._**

**_Disclaimer: Of course, I claim no rights to the ER characters etc._**

**_Author's Note: I want to thank everyone who found the time to read the other massive chapters of this story and then took a few moments more to write a comment. I read every one of your kind remarks, and some of you have written comments far more beautiful than I could ever write. You take my breath away._**

_**Health professionals and medical students: I ask your patience about the medicine in this chapter. I do research, but I am no pro.**_

_**Thanks to those who offered needed encouragement over the last 48 hours.**_

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CARTER AWOKE BEFORE dawn in the dark Paris hotel room. From his pillow, he could see a strip of hallway light that squeezed under the door. From the other side came the voices of travelers pretending to be considerate of sleeping guests by speaking in loud whispers that echoed through the hall and woke them all the same.

He looked to his left and saw the back of Abby's head. She was fast asleep, evidenced by her slow, rhythmic breathing. She was clad in white panties and his borrowed white t-shirt. She must have put them back on in the middle of the night because the last thing he remembered before sleep overtook him were her faintly tanned arms, legs, and chest and the creamy whiteness of her naked breasts and torso. The T-shirt had hiked up around her waist during the night. It left her bottom section bare except for her panties, which did not come up high enough to hide the tiny tattoo at the base of her back—well that's where _she_ said it was. Anyone could plainly see it was practically on the roundness of her buttock.

Carter, on the other hand, slept naked beneath the sheets. His drawstring pants were on the floor near the bed—just where he dropped them when he removed them to be close to her. He was unhappy with himself about the night before. His frustration and disappointment didn't excuse what he did, which was make love to her while he kept his feelings locked away. Ashamed as he was, all he could think of now was dressing quickly and leaving before she awoke—before he looked in her eyes and wanted to do it again.

From the moment Carter changed his mind about proposing to Abby, he started focusing on the worst in their relationship rather than the best. Before that evening, he was blinded to anything but her beauty, her spirit, her body, her touch, and her vulnerability. Now when he looked at her, he saw a woman who could reject him on a moment's notice. A woman he couldn't make happy. A woman who couldn't be relied on to stay away from alcohol. A woman who was afraid to have children—afraid of everything, really—except pain. Abby had a very cozy relationship with pain.

_  
WHEN HE JOINED her on the steps of her building that cold night, she requested he not ruin her "perfect smoke" by asking about her family. Her plans to rehabilitate her mentally ill brother by salvaging the sibling bond were thwarted when Eric and Maggie fled Chicago, leaving Abby helpless—her role as their savior shattered, her view of herself in tatters. The look on her face was frightening—so much pain swathed in so much sarcasm. She deflected his affection, and it hit him painfully in the face._

_Her last bit of hope for peace gone, she announced, "Cancel Christmas," and walked into her apartment building. She seemed not to care whether he followed or not, as if she were so filled with pain that if he hurt her too by not coming upstairs, she wouldn't notice. _

_But follow her he did. When he entered, he saw her from across the room in the bathroom. She stared at her face in the mirror, hating herself for allowing her family to pulverize her time and time again. He walked up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and pressed his lips to her head._

_"Let them work this out their own way. You just concentrate on yourself for once."_

_She thought to herself: Who am I if I'm not busy picking up their pieces?_

_"Leave me alone, please." She wriggled out from under his grasp._

"_I'm hungry," he tried. "Let's get something to eat."_

"_I'm not hungry."_

"_Come on, I'm starving!" he pleaded, hoping to distract her from her pain._

_He should have known better._

_She whipped around to face him. "You're starving?" she asked. Her bitter tone cut like a cold wind. She stormed over to the refrigerator, removed an old pizza box from two nights before, and threw it on the table. It slid almost to the opposite edge and stopped._

"_Be my guest." She stood, arms crossed, her weight defiantly on one hip, her words biting, her attitude like barbed wire. She was daring him to leave, daring him to walk away from her like everyone else._

_Why did he stay and let her humiliate him? Her eyes. They screamed with pain, desperate with fear and loneliness._

_He walked over to her and took her face in his hands. She tried to let the tears roll down her face. She tried to unclench her arms and wind them around him. She tried to rest her head on his chest. But she couldn't bring tenderness to the surface again and risk getting hurt._

"_Let go of me, please. I need to be alone for a while."_

_It would take a lot more than his hands on her cheeks to make her pain go away. Instead, he was dismissed from her premises, destined to feel like a distant bystander._

CARTER TOOK OUT a pen and his checkbook and reached for a notepad. Then he quickly gathered his scattered belongings and packed them in his bag. Before he walked out, he stopped to look at Abby's sleeping form once more. With his index finger he swooped a piece of highlighted hair from her face. He surprised himself when he leaned down to kiss her head and breathe her in once more. She smelled soft like a baby, and he would carry her fragrance with him as long as he could. He took advantage of Abby's dream state to say three words he always meant to say—and a fourth he never imagined he would.

"I love you," he whispered against her temple. "Good-bye."

She had surely broken his heart, and he didn't have the strength to fix it. He picked up his bag and left, closing the door behind him.

_  
_ ABBY COULD FEEL the emptiness in the room even before she opened her eyes half an hour later. She knew he wasn't there. When she did open her eyes, she saw a note on the nightstand:

_"I took care of the room. Get home safely. Take this for your trouble."_

Folded into the note was a check large enough to cover the round trip ticket from Chicago to Paris—and then some.

There were no words of affection, no acknowledgement that just hours before they were touching. And so her body flushed with rage from head to toe. Even her loneliest moments with Luka and angriest moments with Richard did not hurt this way.

Abby admired Carter from the time they met. She wanted to be as skillful as he was, and she appreciated the kindness he offered in her first days in the ER. But lightning-fast he was struck down and fell into a tunnel of his own making. Though she was with Luka, she had a hand in helping him find the man he once was. Slowly they became friends. Soon she noticed that while her nights with Luka were lonely, her days in the ER with Carter were fun. Her nights with Luka were tense, and her days were carefree. With Luka she was silent and reserved, but with Carter she shared and chatted. With Luka she was "not that pretty" and "not that special," but Carter made her feel . . . so . . . _beautiful_. Soon his voice sounded like love to her—but her fears made her run ever closer to Luka. But months later—long after Luka renounced her _("Carter can have you!")_—she was finally in his arms.

When Abby was with Carter, she never enjoyed sex more or silence more. Nothing made her feel better than when he held her and kissed her. And everything hurt less from the first time she buried her face against his chest and discovered the comfort he kept hidden in the folds of his sweater. Abby was in love. She was deeply in love.

But they made mistakes, and with their own hands they dug a canyon of disappointment between them—he by not telling her what he needed and she by giving her body when he yearned for her soul. She tried—she just didn't know how to lean on him, how to love him, or how to make him feel needed. She deserved his disappointment—but not his harshness.

The money enraged her—as if a check would make them even for him leaving her twice in the ambulance bay and now in a Paris hotel room. She decided then she would go to the airport and find him, return his money, and get on the first plane heading anywhere toward the United States. Her jaw set hard, she dressed, lifted her bag, and started for the airport.

_Brrrring. Brrrrrrrrrrring._

Before Abby could reach the door, the telephone rang. She picked up the beige phone on the nightstand.

"Hello?"

Only a dial tone spoke back. The ringing continued. Abby walked around the small room, circling the bed in search of the sound. She reached under the covers and dug deep and finally unearthed Carter's cell phone.

"Hello?"

_"__Dr. Carter, please."_ The woman's voice asked for him in French-tinged English.

"Uhhhhh. I'm sorry he's not here right now."

_"This is Bernadette Dumont from the Alliance du Medicin. It's important that I get in touch with him."_

"Well, I don't know how—"

_"We believe we have located Dr. Kovac alive outside of Matenda."_

___Luka's alive? _She let it sink in for a moment.

"He's alive?" Abby confirmed.

_"We have reason to believe he is."_

Relief overwhelmed her—until she realized that Carter was on his way nonetheless.

_"__With whom am I speaking?"_ asked the woman at the other end of the phone.

"My name is Abby Lockhart. I'm Dr. Carter's gir—" Her steel shell snapped shut.

_"__Do you know how I can get in touch with him?"_ said the woman on the other end.

"Dr. Carter is on his way to Kinshasa—to find Dr. Kovac."

_"Please tell him to call me immediately. Merci."_

"But—"

It was too late. The woman hung up, and the cell phone screen went dark.

She closed Carter's phone and dropped it into the pocket of her off-white jacket. She would give it back to him when she caught up to him in the airport.

ABBY WISHED CARTER had left her cash—it took all the francs she exchanged at the hotel to pay for the taxi to de Gaulle. No longer a stranger to the Paris airport, Abby headed straight for the video monitors to look for Carter's Air France flight to Kinshasa. There were only two flights: One leaving at 7:40 a.m., and another at 8:50 a.m. Both departed from Gate 14. It was 7:06. She knew Carter intended to get the first flight out. But she'd need a ticket to get to him at the gate, so she headed quickly to the Air France counter. A very long line of determined travelers beat her there. Abby joined them as the minutes ticked away. At 7:27 Abby reached the head of the line and purchased a ticket for the first available flight to Chicago—it wasn't until 3:00 in the afternoon. She grabbed the ticket and ran for Gate 14. She arrived at 7:41, just as the doors were closing.

"Wait! Please—" she asked the woman crouched behind the counter fiddling with a printing machine. When she stood up, Abby saw it was the same attendant who paged Carter for her the night before.

"I really need to talk to somebody on that flight."

"I'm sorry, once the doors are sealed—"

"Please, I'm looking for Dr. John Carter. I really need to—"

"Hey, didn't I page him for you last night?"

"Uhhh, yes," Abby admitted.

"Didn't he find you?"

"Yes, he found me."

"Did you lose him again?" the woman teased.

Abby thought a minute. "Yes, I guess I lost him again."

"Bad timing, huh?"

Abby nodded, and the woman gave a sympathetic smile.

Abby had an idea: "You know, he may not have gotten on this flight. Do you think you could page him for me again? Maybe he is somewhere in the airport."

"Look, I remember him from yesterday. Tall American? Big duffle bag? Brown hair, strong nose—cute?"

Abby could only nod; the picture she painted made her yearn for him even through her anger.

"Well, I'm not supposed to say . . . but I think the page is a waste of time."

"Are you saying he got on this flight?"

"Like I said, I wouldn't bother to page him."

Abby understood.

She looked out as the Boeing 747 carrying Carter to Africa crawled away from the gate. She walked to the large window, leaned her forehead against the glass, and watched as the plane made its way toward the take-off strip. She stood there until it built up speed and lifted off the ground. She stepped back from the window and caught her own reflection in the glass as he disappeared into the clouds. The feeling of being left behind was becoming all too familiar to Abby.

What a disaster this whole idea was. She came all this way, and she was going home farther apart from him than before. And he was still headed for danger—

_THUD!_

Abby was startled by a sound at her feet. She jumped backward and looked down to see a woman on the floor. She was probably in her early thirties, with pretty dark tendrils at the sides of her face. _"Oh no, please don't be sick,"_ Abby thought.

Abby leaned over her: "Ma'am . . . uh . . . miss . . . uh . . . mad . . . madame?"

With no response, Abby dropped to her knees.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Abby brought her ear close to the woman's mouth to make sure she was breathing. She placed her fingers on the woman's wrist. Her pulse was weak and rapid, and her skin was pale and clammy. Abby feared she was in shock.

"Somebody call 9-1-1!" Abby yelled, and then wondered if they knew of the 9-1-1 emergency system in France. "An ambulance," she changed it to. "Somebody please call an ambulance!"

"No, I'm okay." The woman suddenly managed to speak in English that was heavily accented with French.

"I think we should get some help for you."

"I'm fine, really." The woman said and began to stand. "I have touch of low blood sugar. Runs in my family. I just need to go home and eat, that's all."

Abby helped her up: "Are you sure? Your pulse is racing."

"No, thank you." And the woman brushed herself off and quickly ran for the exit.

"Sophie?"

Another woman came up, stopped next to Abby, and called after the woman.

_"Sophie!"_

The woman, blond and older by several years, shook her head from side to side, folded her arms across her chest, and let out a big sigh.

"I knew she'd chicken out," she said.

"She seemed sick or upset," Abby said.

"Maybe—but she didn't really want to go where we're going anyway." She turned to Abby. "I saw what you did. Thanks for trying to help." She held out her hand. "I'm Claire."

"Abby."

"Have you seen, Sophie?" The male voice that came from behind Abby was smooth and deep; the tone caring and concerned. Abby turned around and saw an attractive man in his late thirties with soft dirty blond hair. He had light green eyes with long dark lashes, and creamy tanned skin. Through a few wind-blown strands of blond hair she could see a scar across his temple that made its way from his hairline to the corner of his left eye.

Abby was taken back by his strong presence.

"Sophie's gone," said Claire. "She ran out of here. This is Abby, she tried to help—"

"She fell, and I took her pulse, that's all," Abby explained modestly.

"Are you a doctor?" the man asked her.

"No, I am a nurse."

"So am I," said Claire. "Sophie is a nurse, too. We are traveling with the Alliance du Medecin. We're on our way to Africa. This is Dr. Albrecht."

"Damon," he said, holding out his hand. "Damon Albrecht."

"Nice to meet you, " Abby said. "The Alliance du Medicin? I know it well," Abby said. "It's a great cause."

"It's a wonderful organization," the handsome doctor said, "We travel all over the world."

"Dangerous places," Abby added, glancing at his scar.

"Certainly—In fact, this trip I am covering for a doctor that's missing right now."

"A friend of mine is missing, and my b— . . . and someone else I know went to find him," Abby said.

"Who's in trouble?"

"Dr. Kovac. Luka Kovac."

"We know Luka!" The nurse exclaimed. "Sorry to hear about him."

"I'm Kovac's replacement," Albrecht said.

Abby needed a minute to swallow the coincidence.

"Look, our flight's not boarding yet. Can we buy you a cup of coffee for trying to help our colleague?" Albrecht asked.

"Umm . . . Sure, I guess so. Thanks," Abby replied.

"SO WHO DID you say went to look for Kovac?" Claire asked as the three sat in the snack bar sipping bad coffee from paper cups.

"John Carter. Do you know him?" Abby asked.

"Heard of him from the Alliance," answered Albrecht. "I heard he was good, but I haven't met him. Then again, I haven't been to the Congo for nine months or so."

"I know him," Claire said. "I was here about three weeks ago, and I ran into Carter. Good guy. He and Luka are . . . _were_ . . . close."

"Actually, this morning the Alliance tried to contact Carter. They seem to think Luka may be alive. That's why I am trying to track down Carter."

"Well, that's great news. I hope you find him. But I'm glad you're going to be there for whatever reason now that Sophie's not. We can use all the help we can get," said Claire.

"Oh, I'm not going to the Congo," Abby laughed.

"I just assumed—you were at our gate . . ." Claire responded, a bit confused.

"Oh no, not me."

"That's tough because we could sure use the help . . ." she said, clearly disappointed.

"Believe me, I'm like Sophie—I don't have the stuff."

"Really? I saw you from across the room with Sophie. You moved like a doctor," Albrecht interjected.

"No, I just . . . no, I never even considered it."

"Well, we are short a nurse. Why don't you consider it now?" Claire suggested.

"Go with you? To Africa? I couldn't. I'm sorry."

"Please, we are so short-handed. We are desperate for help," Claire pleaded.

"No . . . I-I'm sorry. It's just too short notice. There's my job . . . my apartment . . . I should have really canceled my newspaper delivery before I came to Paris—"

"Aw. Come on!" Claire encouraged.

"Really, I'm not much of a traveler . . . I'm not even enrolled in the program."

"I can take care of that in a phone call. This is an emergency situation," offered Albrecht.

"I don't have a ticket . . . and I probably need some special inoculations."

"If anybody can pull some strings, Damon can," Claire said.

Abby was running out of excuses. To her own amazement, she started toying with the idea.

Albrecht clinched it. "Come on, you can meet up with your friend and do some good in the world, too." He touched her hand. "Please."

His green eyes stared at her. Abby's stomach twittered a little at his touch. She had to look away because he gazed at her so intensely.

"Am I crazy?" She thought to herself. "I _am_ crazy."

At 8:52 THE DOORS of the aircraft were sealed shut and there was no turning back. As they crept into the sky, the sites of Paris grew smaller, and reality set in. Abby wasn't on her way to a motel in Oklahoma or a diner in Nebraska. She was going to Africa to—you know—_help_ people. And if she happened to run into Carter, she'd tell him about Luka and return his cell phone. However, she'd be sure to give him a piece of her mind and tell him that their relationship was over. She would make sure he knew how furious she was and that she—

It was no use. She was kidding herself. The only thing Abby wanted to tell Carter was that she loved him. All she wanted from him was his word that he wouldn't leave her again. And this time, she wanted him to mean it.

___  
SHE SHOULD HAVE known. She should have seen it coming. This is how he protects himself—he retreats. He did it that evening on the El when they argued about her drinking. Earlier, when she sensed his anger, she offered him a dinner of burgers and shakes and tempted him that he might "get lucky." But as the train pulled into the station in the midst of their quarrel, Abby begged him not to get on. She pleaded with him to stay and work things out. But even she knew that "work things out" meant "see things my way." Despite her pleas, he was able to shut off his feelings and step on that train and leave her standing there alone._

___He didn't stay away from her for long. He couldn't. He waited for her to arrive home and surprised her as she climbed the steps to her apartment building. He apologized for walking away from her, explaining that he needed some time to figure out "where we were."_

___Abby stepped down to met him halfway and announced, "Here we are." Her sweet smile captivated him, and somehow they both knew this relationship was a keeper._

_"__Come on up. Are you hungry?" she said._

_"__Your treat, right?"_

_"__What?"_

_"__Your offer—burgers and shakes, remember?"_

___She laughed. _

_"__Come on," he said and took her hand. They walked down the steps to a café around the corner, which they'd visited many times. They ate at a small round table for two in a corner against a red brick wall. They sat with their knees touching, hers fitting perfectly in the little space his made._

___The waiter brought them each a burger and set the plates down in front of them. _

_"__Susan went out with a venture capitalist," Abby told him as she lifted the top of her bun._

___On cue, Carter reached for the ketchup and uncapped it. "From cowboy to venture capitalist?" He laughed and poured the perfect amount for Abby on her exposed hamburger (four drops equally spaced) and then poured his (a thick circular ribbon of red). "She like him?"_

_"__Nope, but as she's telling me . . ." Abby paused to take a big bite of her burger, chewed, and then continued. "She's says 'do you think Chen's okay?' I look over and I see Chen dive off the stage and surf the crowd!" Abby giggled and reached for her chocolate shake._

_"__Deb?" Carter laughed in disbelief. He took a big bite of his burger, and a little ketchup oozed onto the corner of his mouth._

_"__Yes! I thought Susan was going to fall off her chair laughing," she answered still chuckling. She reached across the table and with her pinky she wiped the bit of ketchup from his mouth and onto her napkin in one quick move. _

___They finished their meal, joking and enjoying each other's company. He went to pay the bill, but she insisted it was her treat. _

___They walked back to her apartment and up the stairs._

_"__Where's the rest of my offer?" he said as he lifted her ponytail and placed several small kisses along the back of her neck as she unlocked the door. _

_"__Rest of your offer?" she asked, hunching her shoulders against his ticklish kisses._

_"__You said I'd get lucky." He moved his kisses to just behind her earlobe. One hand crept around her waist from behind and pulled her close. _

_"__I said maybe you'd get lucky—and we're out in the hall, by the way." She looked around to see if her neighbors had spied them. She pretended to be disturbed by his indiscretion, but in truth it excited her. _

___The door fell open, and they entered. "What are my odds?" he asked._

_"__About a million to one." She yawned and slipped off her jacket as she kicked off her shoes. "All that arguing today made me tired." She retreated to her room, stretching her arms in the air._

_"__Okay," he laughed. "But I want a rain check."_

_"__Do I owe you a rain check?" she smirked as she closed her bedroom door behind her._

___Carter used her bathroom, took a drink of water from the kitchen, then sat on the couch and checked the messages on his cell phone. When he was through, he closed his phone and yelled to her. _

_"__Abby, I'm going head home tonight. Gamma wants me to stop by in the morning," he said tinkering with his cell phone. "She's got some symphony project she wants to talk about. Okay?"_

___Hearing no response, he looked up toward her bedroom door._

_"__Abby?"_

___He stood up from the couch._

_"__Did you hear me? If you're going to bed, I'm going to head home."_

___She didn't answer and he walked toward her bedroom door. _

_"__Abby?"_

___He nudged the door open with his fingertips and stepped into her room. It was pitch black, and he could see nothing. Even the streetlights were blocked by her rarely drawn curtains._

_"__Abby?" he said quietly._

___She came up behind him. The lightly scented shampoo she used that morning gave her away. He turned around. Even in the darkness, he could tell that she wore no clothes and that her hair was down from its ponytail and brushed smooth._

___She nudged him backward toward her bed and gently pushed him down onto his back on top of the soft down comforter._

_"__What's this?" he asked, a knowing smiling breaking out on his face._

_"__Shhhhh," she answered as she kneeled on the bed next to him and reached for his tie. She unwound it, slid it from around his neck, and unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one pearl button at a time. She ran her hands over his skin and pulled him in for a deep kiss._

___For almost an hour she touched him and teased him until he could take no more. And when he was through and breathing heavily with her head collapsed on his chest, he laughed and kissed her playfully. And she rolled away onto the pillow next to his. _

___However, he couldn't see in the darkness that the expression on her face changed completely. It grew dark._

_"__Don't do that again . . . okay?" she said._

_"__Do what?" he said, still out of breath._

_"__Walk away from me like you did today. Don't do it again."_

_"__I'm sor—"_

_"__Say you won't do it again."_

_"__What's the mat—?"_

_"__Say it."_

___He looked over at her and tried to see her eyes. Just then a truck passed on the street below. Its bright lights squeezed through her blinds for an instant just enough to illuminate her eyes. They were moist._

_"__I mean it," she said._

___He rolled over onto her. She felt him trace her mouth with his fingertip. And he brought his lips close to hers until they were not quite touching, and he whispered against them, "I won't leave you like that again." Then he pressed his lips against hers in a long, slow kiss that made her body weak and her eyes drift closed. His mouth moved tenderly over hers, his head following, his eyes closed, his breathing steady and warm against her cheek. And the only sounds in the world to her were the barely audible crackles that their mouths made when their lips parted and came together and parted again to form their kiss. When finally he lifted his lips from hers, he whispered once again, "I won't leave you." He left her breathless._

_Abby slid out from under him, walked naked into the bathroom, and closed the door. He didn't see her again for a while. That's because behind the door, she sat on the edge of the tub, gripping it with white knuckles, and trembled at how close she came to losing him that evening._

BUT CARTER DID walk away from her again—and again, and now once more.

Damon Albrecht's voice broke into her thoughts.

"Here is your passport back," he said as he opened it to make sure he was getting her name right. "_Abigail_ Lockhart." And handed it to her. He had borrowed it to help get her emergency credentials to travel with the group.

"At the customs desk in Kinshasa there'll be a representative from the Alliance with an emergency visa for you. When we get to the hospital in Kisangani, we'll inoculate you, and you'll be all set," he explained casually.

Abby took a deep breath and shuddered a little as she let it out.

"May I?" He pointed to the empty seat next to her. There were, in fact, many empty seats on the plane, as she found out later there was a U.S. State Department warning against travel to the war-torn Congo. Indeed, many nations imposed travel restrictions to their destination.

"Yes—and it's Abby."

"Thank you, Abigail."

She looked at him.

"Such a beautiful name should not go to waste," he stated.

"Where are you from?" His slight accent was unfamiliar to her.

"I am from Vaduz."

It didn't ring a bell for Abby.

"Liechtenstein—Vaduz is our capital."

"I never met anyone from Liechtenstein before."

"It's very tiny but very beautiful. You should visit one day."

"Visit Liechtenstein? Maybe. I can't believe I made it to Paris—and I'll have to pinch myself when we land in Africa."

"Don't be silly. It's going to be wonderful."

As he spoke she glanced at the scar next to his eye. A few soft blond strands of his hair fell across it.

He noticed.

"It is a dangerous place, Kisangani. But you'll be okay. I'll make sure."

Seven hours later, the plane landed in the Congolese capital of Kinshasa. As promised, Abby's emergency visa was waiting at the customs office—a small room off the main gate area heavily guarded by soldiers with bayonets. She quickly retrieved it with Claire and Albrecht, and they ran to board a propeller plane that would transport them to the smaller city of Kisangani.

From the low-flying aircraft, Abby was able to see the natural beauty of Africa that Carter described. She stared at the lush greenery but saw nothing that resembled a city for miles.

The peacefulness of the scenery from up in the clouds belied the chaos she fell into when the door opened in Kisangani.

Hoards of people crowded the tiny airport. Screaming infants and joyous greeters drowned out the loudspeaker. Soldiers with bayonets lined the airport walls. Bright sunshine poured into the one large waiting room. It was hot—very hot—and Abby struggled to remove her jacket. It got caught on something as she headed for the exit with Claire and Albrecht. "Hold on!" Abby shouted to them, and she tugged at her jacket until she saw it was caught on the bayonet tip of a soldier's weapon. She froze. He released it and smiled at her. Abby tried to smile back, but instead, she ran.

Outside a mud-smudged white van awaited, and the trio piled in. Abby sat in the middle row alone while Claire and Albrecht headed for the back of the vehicle. They introduced Abby to Angelique, who sat in the front passenger seat next to Guillaume, the driver. Claire explained that Angelique was in charge over at the hospital.

The journey to the hospital was over rough, semi-paved roads. The van was not air-conditioned so the windows remained open. The muffler of the vehicle was in disrepair, and so the engine roared with a deafening sound. The heat and turbulence made Abby's stomach turn, and she breathed deeply to control her nausea. She needed something to take her mind off her surroundings.

"Do you know Dr. John Carter?" Abby shouted to Angelique.

"Went to Matenda—there's a clinic there," Angelique shouted back. "He lost his friend around there." Abby noticed she did not bother to turn around to address her.

"So he's not at the hospital where we are going?" Abby felt disappointment wash over her like another wave of nausea—only the disappointment felt worse.

Angelique shouted back: "Not right now. He left with Gillian and Debbie just before we came to pick you up."

"Gillian and Debbie?"

"Yes, Gillian is a nurse from Montreal. She and Dr. Kovac are . . . good friends," Angelique answered.

Luka was "more than fine," Carter had said. _I bet he was_, Abby smirked.

"Debbie's with the International Red Cross," Angelique continued. "She knows these parts better than most of the population. She's an American too, like Dr. Carter."

"Little bump!" the driver warned just as the van crossed over a deep round hole in the road. They hit hard, and Abby bounced from her seat and whacked her head against the frame of the door.

"Ouch!" She yelled and rubbed her head. "Don't suppose you could have driven around that, huh?" she mumbled.

The van bounced along the dirt road leading to the hospital and came to a rough stop.

"Come with me," Angelique said to Abby. Claire and Albrecht wished her luck and proceeded to get settled. Meanwhile, Angelique gave Abby her required inoculations and a quick orientation.

The hospital outside of Kisangani was an unsightly edifice of aluminum and cinder block that emerged among trees—there were no parking lots, no signs, no place to get coffee. Three wooden steps led from the outside directly into the main ward. It had a high ceiling and slowly spinning fans suspended from it. There were two long rows of beds, with men, women, and children mixed together. Off the main ward to the right were a few smaller rooms: a trauma room, which doubled as the O.R., plus a supply closet and a sort of storage room, which was lit more adequately than the trauma room as it turned out. The room held broken beds and extra mattresses. The next door led to a large cafeteria for the staff. To the left of the main ward was a small isolation ward, with its own set of rickety steps and a screen door leading to the outside. Also off the main ward on the left was small hallway leading to the AIDS clinic, a large room overflowing with patients.

Situated to the right of the main hospital was a small colony of bungalows, where the visiting staff lived. Each was a simple wooden structure about 15 feet square with a bed, a wicker chest of drawers containing clean bed linens, and a small bathroom with sink, toilet and shower—which was really just a pipe overhead and a mechanism to make it spill water over one's head. Any other decoration—lamps, wall art, rugs etc., were courtesy of the previous tenant. There were a dozen or so bungalows —six and then six more directly across from those. Carter had been in No. 2, Abby was informed, while she was put in 5. She didn't know much else, other than Damon Albrecht was across from Carter in 11.

"Put your belongings down and come help in the main ward," Angelique ordered. Abby entered her bungalow and dropped her bag on the bed. The only thing decorating her sparsely furnished dwelling was a small lamp with a paper lampshade bearing a black and yellow butterfly.

Abby fought the blinding late-afternoon sun and walked nervously to the main ward. She climbed the wooden steps and stood just inside momentarily allowing her eyes to adjust to the inside light and her heart to slow down a bit. Immediately, wails of anguish drowned her panic as two men carried a third into the door of the hospital. Their arms formed a chair in which the third man sat. His screams were well deserved, as Abby saw that the lower part of his right leg had been completed torn off below the knee by whatever trauma he'd suffered. A nurse whipped by Abby to help, practically spinning her around. Angelique followed, nearly knocking her aside, and then Albrecht was on top of them also.

"To the trauma room!" Angelique yelled. And they all moved off as a group, leaving Abby frozen in her spot.

In an instant, the man fell unconscious, and though Abby expected the shrieks to stop, they were immediately replaced by the shouts of a woman with a large pregnant belly yelling for help from outside the door at the base of the rickety wooden stairs. She was tall, in her mid-20s, Abby guessed, with smooth chocolate-colored skin.

"Bon jour!" The woman yelled, hoping to get someone's attention. _"Bon jour!"_

Abby looked around for someone to help, but all available hands were with the traumatic amputee. So she walked outside and assisted the woman into the main ward.

"Hey, I need some help over here!" Abby yelled as they came through the door.

No one responded. They were all preoccupied with the flurry of activity in the trauma room.

"Hey, can I get some help, pleeeeease?" Abby pleaded.

The woman let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Okay, breathe like this." Abby demonstrated the panting breathing common to Western women trained in Lamaze birth.

The woman tried her best to mimic Abby.

"That's right," Abby comforted her. "You're doing great." The woman screamed again.

"Ma'am, what is your name?" Abby said, trying to get her to focus on something other than her pain. "I'm Abby, what is your name?"

The woman understood Abby's English. Panting between syllables, she managed to get out, _"Ni . . . co . . . lette."_

"Ni-co-lette?" Abby mimicked her syllabication in an attempt to make sense of it. "Ni-co-lette," Abby kept repeating. "Oh, Nicolette! Is that right?"

_"Oui."_ The woman smiled, comforted by Abby's attention and patience, but let out another scream that hurt Abby's ears.

"Nicolette, I'm going to help you, okay?"

Abby yelled in to Angelique. "Is there a bed that's free?"

"The floor," Angelique shouted back. "We're full—there is no bed to waste on a delivery. And we cannot spare a doctor for something nature takes care of by itself."

There was no time to argue, Abby helped the woman into the storage area off the main ward. It was fairly large and bright with a large open area in the center surrounded by a broken bed frame, a small high bed with bars that resembled a crib, and a broken ceiling fan on the floor. Abby grabbed an old mattress off a broken stretcher and helped the woman to the floor. Angelique leaned out of the trauma room, handed Abby sterile scissors, and pointed out the bowl of gloves. Then she tossed Abby a few towels, a stethoscope, and some advice: "Do the best you can."

Abby's heart was pounding, but she managed to compose herself and position the woman so she could examine her.

"Nicolette," Abby said as she tucked her own hair behind her ears and then stretched on her gloves. "I'm going to check the position of your baby."

The woman screamed with another contraction.

"Breathe, Nicolette, breathe like I showed you." And again Abby demonstrated the panting rhythm.

"Where is your husband? Is anybody with you?" Abby asked, trying to take the expectant mother's mind off her severe labor pains.

"I have no one but a sister. My husband . . ." She struggled to find the English word. " . . . _est mort_—dead," she clarified.

"Oh, I'm sorry. How long?"

"Two years."

_Two years?_ The incongruity confused her for a moment but there wasn't time to wonder . . .

"Oh, no, you're crowning. Go ahead and—"

But before Abby could finish, the tiny baby emerged from the woman's body with barely a shove.

The little one wriggled and whimpered and then breathed normally, and finally Abby did also. She took the wet child in her arms, cut the cord with the scissors Angelique provided, and offered the tiny girl to her mother.

"Nicolette, you have a daughter."

There was no response.

"Nicolette!"

Abby shook the new mother. Her head wagged from side to side from the force of Abby's hands, but the woman was unconscious. Abby placed the baby on the mattress next to her mother and saw the pool of blood streaming from between the woman's legs. Her pulse was weak and rapid; her skin cold and clammy. Abby put the stethoscope against the woman's chest and heard her rapid heartbeat.

"Oh my God," Abby said out loud. "Oh my God,"

Abby grabbed Nicolette's hand and held her own finger against the base of the woman's thumbnail, pressing the pinkness out of it until only white remained. Abby watched for the pinkness to return. It didn't.

"Somebody help me! My patient's bleeding out!"

Abby tried desperately to prop up her legs to keep the blood near her major organs, but without surgery, she couldn't stop the bleeding, let alone tell where the bleeding was coming from.

The team in the trauma room was still busy working on the young soldier, and there were no available hands. Nicolette soon stopped breathing and her heart ceased beating, and Abby began CPR. But the woman's rapidly emptying heart had nothing left to pump. And as she lay dying, her eyes met Abby's.

"Nicolette, stay for your baby," Abby whispered through compressions.

Despite Abby's efforts, the new mother passed to her next life.

Abby leaned exhausted over the lifeless woman who now lay in a pool of her own blood. Too shaken to move, Abby's hands remained crossed over the woman's heart. Soon Abby's own breathing slowed and she grew cold and dizzy. But then the tiny life the woman bore began to shriek wildly and caught her attention. Abby finally removed her hands from the woman's chest and reached down and picked up the crying child. It was then that she realized she had delivered the most beautiful baby girl she'd ever seen. The infant had creamy pale cappuccino skin, the color of light coffee ice cream, with sweet tiny cherry lips. She had ten fingers and ten toes and little more than ten minutes of life, and she was already alone.

"She's beautiful." Abby heard Damon Albrecht's voice from behind her. In his hand he carried a metal bowl. He placed it on the floor next to her. The bowl contained warm water and a small, white washcloth.

"She has no mother or father," Abby responded as she reached in the bowl, squeezed the excess water from the cloth, and began to wash the brand-new baby.

"But she has life, and you helped give her that. In this place, that is no small feat."

Abby had no words.

"You handled the delivery like a pro—"

"For God's sake, the mother died!" Abby snapped back, suddenly managing to express her frustration. She was barely in Kisangani for an hour and a life in her care had already expired. She had failed this poor mother. This ill-equipped place had failed her. These people who called themselves nurses and physicians had failed her, Abby thought. She held the baby in one arm, and with the other, she closed the woman's eyes and stroked her head.

Albrecht signaled two young men to cover the woman's body and remove her. Then he sat down on the floor next to Abby. He took the washcloth from her hand, rinsed it in the bowl, and continued to wipe the baby clean while Abby held her in her arms.

"We got lucky in there. That soldier survived. But there aren't enough of us, Abigail. You'll find that out quickly here. There isn't enough of anything here. But you do the best you can. I meant what I said—you looked like a pro."

"I was an OB nurse before I worked in the ER. I was also a med student for a while."

"Med student?"

"Third year—but I couldn't resist the glamour of nursing."

"But you were almost a doctor . . . "

"Being overworked and underappreciated is more comfortable for me."

He smiled at her sarcasm. Their eyes met, but Abby quickly looked away.

"Seems to me you are a doctor, nonetheless."

She could tell he was looking at her and had to admit she felt a little calmer.

"She'll want to eat soon," Abby said as she cradled the baby. The infant girl instinctively turned her mouth toward Abby's breast and began to fuss. Abby could feel the baby's tiny nose nuzzling her nipple through her white V-neck top and flimsy bra. She adjusted her position, aware of Albrecht's eyes.

He said, "Perhaps we can find a wet nurse in the camps."

"Camps?" Abby asked.

"Refugee camps. They're all around here. Hundreds of thousands of people with no homes, their villages destroyed by this inane fighting. Most of the patients you'll see here are from the camps."

"Oh," Abby said, the realization of where she was beginning to set in.

"In the meantime, ask Angelique to release the storehouse of infant formula we keep for emergencies."

"What will they do with her mother?"

"They'll clean her up and bring her to the camps and try to find family or friends to bury her. Then they'll tell them about the baby, and maybe someone will come and claim her—but I wouldn't hold your breath."

"She has a sister."

"Even so—don't expect her to come."

"Why not? Wouldn't her family want her baby?"

He dropped the cloth back in the bowl, and rose to his knees. He plugged his stethoscope in his ears and gave a quick check of the baby in Abby's arms. "Yes, I'm sure they would want to help," he said. "The people here are very committed to home and family. But no one is anxious for another mouth to feed nowadays. I suspect they may think she is better off in the hands of the international aid community. So like I said, I wouldn't hold your breath for anyone to come for her."

He removed the scope from his ears. "She seems fine."

He reached up and handed Abby a small sheet from a pile on a nearby stretcher. Abby took it and wrapped the baby in it.

"I suggest you keep her in here—away from the general patient population."

"In here? It's just a . . . storage room."

"You don't suggest we put a brand-new healthy infant in with children suffering from malaria, cholera, pertussis—"

"I get it."

"She'll be right off the main ward in case she needs anything. You can put her in this." He grabbed the wheel of a small high bed and shook it to test its steadiness."

"They used to perform surgery on children in this."

Abby made a face.

"At least she won't fall out," Albrecht said, pointing out the low bars that surrounded the small mattress.

"Okay, thanks."

"I've got to go. I promised I'd check on an old patient of mine."

"House calls?"

He smiled modestly.

"I'll be back later. Get used to things, Abigail."

He gently caressed the satiny cheek of the brand-new infant with one finger of his sun-tanned hand. "Welcome to the world, Little One. Meet your guardian angel." He squeezed Abby's shoulder, rose to his feet, and left.

Alone now with the new baby, Abby couldn't resist the temptation to test the softness of the infant's skin by pressing her lips to the baby's forehead. Abby's kiss stirred the infant. Her arms and legs began to wriggle, and for the first time, her puffy newborn lids separated.

Her first sight on this earth was Abby's smile.

_Next—_

_Chapter Four: A Rock to the Head _


	4. A Rock to the Head

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

_**CHAPTER FOUR: A ROCK TO THE HEAD  
**_

**_Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent)_**

**_Summary: Abby gets acquainted with Kisangani and bonds with an orphaned newborn she delivered, while an entourage that includes Carter searches for Luka outside the remote village of Matenda. Sometimes new friends help see the world clearly—sometimes not._**

**_Disclaimer: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks._**

**_Author's Note: This is not an easy story—but it is not all about angst. It's about learning. And, most definitely, it's about love. Settle in as these middle chapters will have adventure and set the stage for the drama to come._**

_**Thank you again for your interest. I hope you can feel my gratitude.**_

_**

* * *

**_

CARTER SAT IN the front passenger seat of the tan Land Rover on the bumpy road to Matenda. It was evening, and they had been in motion for hours. Driving was Debbie, a Red Cross worker well known in these parts. She was strong, blond, and pretty—"outdoorsy," one might say. She didn't know what to make of Carter, but she watched him from the corner of her eye as they rolled toward Matenda. Carter sat sideways with his back to the door. His left knee rested on the bench seat, and his left arm embraced the headrest. He was keeping his eye on the back seat where Gillian sat. She was weepy and depressed at the thought of claiming Luka's body. Carter, in turn, didn't know what to make of Gillian, though he noticed she and Luka had gotten close during his recent visit to Kisangani. They were close enough that at the end of each night, Luka would rub out his cigarette and follow Gillian into her room—but not close enough that he wouldn't offer Carter a turn.

"Thanks for the ride," Carter said to Debbie. Not one to be complimented, she explained she needed to deliver supplies to the Matenda clinic anyway.

"So who is the dead guy?" she asked.

Gillian began to sniffle, but Debbie was oblivious.

"A friend," Carter said, looking at Gillian. Debbie got the message and glanced at Gillian through the rear-view mirror. "Sorry."

She spoke to Carter in slightly lower tones: "Did he have a death wish?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean these parts have been overrun by soldiers for the past week. I thought everybody split from here the other day."

"I know. I was here."

"So why'd your friend stay?"

"He's a doctor."

"You are too, aren't you?"

"I am."

"But you don't have a death wish like he does?"

"Who knows?" Carter replied. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

ABBY SAT IN a wheelchair with a broken footrest as she fed the tiny baby she delivered late that afternoon. The wheelchair was part of the furnishings she assembled for the makeshift nursery created in what was the hospital's storage room. Fortunately, it was bright, and the cinder block walls were painted a happy shade of yellow. In the center was a small, high bed on wheels. Abby used it as a crib for the newborn by folding a standard bed sheet many times to fit the tiny mattress, which was surrounded by low metal bars that would prevent the infant from falling out.

In a supply closet, Abby found a few disposable diapers, several old-fashioned cloth diapers and safety pins, as well as a few tiny undershirts that were still too big for the newborn but would have to do. She found a lightweight blanket and came across a couple of plastic nursing bottles. Abby spent the early evening washing and sterilizing these by hand in hot water, and then finally sat down to feed the baby some more of the powdered infant formula that Angelique provided. Abby prepared it carefully using her own ration of bottled water from the cafeteria and prayed the formula would agree with the little one's tiny tummy.

The relative peace of the hospital that evening was shattered by the wails of a woman out in the main ward. Abby stood to go help just as Damon Albrecht stepped in.

"What's going on out there?" Abby asked.

"They brought in another rape victim."

"Rape?"

"It's rampant around here. Husbands go off to fight, others feel they can . . . take their place," he explained, trying to pick delicate words.

Abby looked toward the direction of the cries. "I don't understand," she said softly, shaking her head and refusing to let the information enter. She held the baby closer.

"Many of the women feel powerless to do anything. That poor woman must have fought back. Sounds like she's hurt."

"Are you going to treat her?"

"I try to let female staff treat rape victims. I just think it may be more . . . comfortable . . . for them. Angelique is checking her out. If the woman's okay, she'll send her home."

"Until the next time some guy decides to—"

"Unfortunately," he said a little too casually for Abby.

"You sound like you accept it—like it's a fact of life." She snapped at him and inadvertently pulled the bottle from the baby's mouth.

"No, Abigail. It's a fact of _war_."

The infant started to squeal. Her hands formed little fists, and she shook them. She looked as angry as Abby felt. But Abby was ashamed that she took it out on Albrecht.

"I'm sorry, Damon. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry. I understand," he said and touched her arm.

"How's your patient?" Abby asked, changing the subject and placing the nipple of the bottle back in the baby's mouth.

"What?"

"You said earlier you were going to the refugee camps to see a patient. How did it go?"

"Oh. Not well—10-year-old with polio. How are _you_ doing?"

"I think the other nurses think I'm incompetent. I can't seem to find anything. I'm better off in here with her," Abby said, rocking the baby who suddenly seemed more interested in sleeping than in eating.

"What about a name for this little girl?" Albrecht asked. He leaned over and placed his hand on the baby's forehead. With his thumb, he quickly lifted each of her tiny lids to check her eyes.

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Why not? She doesn't seem to have any family."

"I don't know—"

"Go ahead."

"Okay, I'll think about it," Abby said, smiling down at the little girl.

The noise out in the main ward subsided. Abby looked out of the storage room and could see Angelique sending the rape victim on her way. The woman's sobs turned to sniffles and then grew fainter the farther she walked from the hospital.

"Seems like Angelique has everything under control," Albrecht said, trying to get Abby's attention again. "I could use some help in the main ward. Why don't you give me a hand?"

Abby removed the bottle from the mouth of the baby, who had fallen asleep anyway. Abby held the girl on her shoulder and rubbed her back to try and raise a bubble before returning her to the makeshift crib. Then she set the baby down—reluctantly. She already felt empty without the tiny girl's warm body in her arms.

DEBBIE AND CARTER spotted the site at the same time—in the evening light, the one-room A-frame clinic looked intact from the road, but as they pulled closer, they could see that the rear of the structure was fully collapsed. Two shirtless men were pulling wooden planks away from the damaged part of the building. As the Land Rover pulled up to the wooden steps leading to the front of the clinic, they were met by a man.

"Are you from the hospital in Kisangani?" the man asked in beautiful, melodic English embellished with French and Swahili.

"Yes—what happened here?" Carter responded.

"Where is everybody?" Gillian insisted on knowing right away.

"Who are you?" Debbie chimed in.

"I am Bendu Nyobi. My men and I were hired by the Alliance du Medicin to check out the aftermath of the firefight on the clinic here."

"Firefight?" Carter asked, his anxiety level rising.

"It's all over now, but rival factions plowed through here a few days ago. They had rockets and other heavy weaponry. They did a lot of damage to the back of the building. Most of the patients were removed from here days ago. But we were told a doctor stayed behind with three criticals. The patients are out back—they didn't make it. I'm sorry."

Gillian started to weep. "Where is the doctor?"

"We found him under the rubble. It took my men a day and a half to get him out. He's on a stretcher just inside."

Gillian asked through her tears: "Is he alive?"

Carter didn't wait for the answer and ran for the door to check for himself.

Inside the room on a narrow cot lay Luka, eyes closed, face bruised, hands and neck cut.

Debbie followed with Carter's bag. He grabbed it from her and pulled out his stethoscope and a small flashlight.

"Luka," he said. "Luka can you hear me? _Luka!_"

There was no response.

"Resps are a little weak," Carter said with the scope in his ears. "Heart rate's good."

Gillian stood at the door, and Carter nodded to her that he was alive. And she slid down the wall in relief.

"Luka, wake up!" Carter shouted at him.

This time, Luka's lids fluttered at the sound of his name.

"I thought you left," Luka said in a whisper.

"Apparently nothing I say means anything. I asked you not get yourself killed, remember? Hours later, they are ready to bury you."

Luka smiled and slipped out of consciousness again. Carter put his hand on his forehead: "Good to see you, my friend."

Bendu Nyobi entered. "How's he doing?"

"Looks like he's had a rough time, but I think he's going to be okay."

"That's good. When we dug him out, I couldn't even tell if he was breathing."

"I'm John Carter. I want to thank you," Carter said. He stood and held out his hand.

"For what?"

"For saving my friend—this is Luka Kovac. He and I are doctors in the United States."

"It was one of my men that saved him really. The Alliance hired the three of us. I have a small plane tied out in the clearing about half a kilometer from here. Dr. Kovac was lucky. We pulled out the third body from under the debris just before you arrived."

"Did you say you have a plane?"

"Yes—single engine, two-seater with a cargo hold."

"Do you think you could fly Dr. Kovac back to the hospital in Kisangani?"

"Already taken care of. I radioed the hospital before you got here that I'd be there tomorrow with the doctor."

"Mind if I tag along?" Carter asked.

"The pleasure will be mine."

"Are you and your men still working on the debris pile now?"

"Around the clock. I need to be finished before I leave here with Dr. Kovac tomorrow."

"Come on, I'll give you a hand," Carter volunteered.

"It's a tough job, Dr. Carter. We're pulling boards one by one and it is hot—even though the sun is down."

Carter unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, and threw it on a cot next to Luka where he would later spend the night. Bendu gave Carter gloves and thanked him.

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Nyobi. I owe you."

"It's Bendu, please."

"WHAT DO YOU think?" Albrecht asked as he and Abby leaned over the bed of a young man 18 or 19 years old.

"What do _I_ think?" Abby looked surprised.

"Yes, what's your diagnosis?"

"Well the diagnosis is really for a doctor—"

"I've seen you with these patients. You move like a doctor. Go ahead. Give it a try."

Abby sighed deeply but took a stab as long as he was interested in her opinion.

"Well, judging from the painless diarrhea, muscle cramps, cold skin, sunken eyes on top of the vocal changes, I'd say . . . _cholera_? But is that even possible?"

"Not only possible—likely. Very good, Abigail."

Abby smiled at her small victory.

"Beautiful and smart. I knew it."

The compliment embarrassed Abby a bit, and she withdrew.

"Well, if you don't need me anymore, I'll peek in on the baby."

CARTER WALKED AROUND to the front of the clinic after the last board was removed from the debris pile around back. Sweaty and exhausted, he leaned against the wooden fence that ran alongside the clinic and rested his chin on the back of his hands.

He didn't hear Debbie come up behind him, but he felt her use the towel in her hands to wipe the perspiration from his back. Then she flung the towel over the fence and stood next to him.

"Bendu's men will keep me and Gillian company on the way back. You can fly with Kovac if you want."

"Okay."

Carter was far off. The toweling helped but he needed something different—like an ice pack on the back of his neck. He forced away the memory of Abby breaking open a pack that day in the hospital. She had wrapped it around his neck and held it there. He liked to imagine it was an excuse to encircle him with her arms. He tried to erase the memory of her mouth right there in front of him—an easy target. The day the city feared smallpox had been released was the first time he ever kissed her. And that was the moment he chose: She was looking to him for reassurance; he was looking at her lips. She wondered if they would be okay; he wondered what her mouth felt like. He couldn't help himself, and he finally kissed her. And when he pulled away, she seemed a little reluctant to release him—or maybe he'd imagined that, too.

"How come you came back for him?" Debbie's voice interrupted.

"Huh?"

"Kovac—Must be like a brother to come all the way back here for him."

"Actually, for a long time I wanted him out of the picture."

"Why?"

"Luka and I were sort of . . . rivals," Carter said. He laughed and shook his head remembering a time that seemed so long ago.

"Who won?"

"Well, I got the girl, if that's what you're asking."

"So you won."

He gazed through the trees beyond the tall, swaying grass out onto the dark horizon.

"It's all the way you look at it, I suppose."

"Ouch," Debbie said under her breath.

Carter swept his eyes along the purple night sky. He found himself squinting to stretch his vision beyond the curve of the globe to the edge of the continent and across the sea to where Abby probably lay sleeping in a nest of steel and concrete.

"It's so beautiful here," he said, his eyes on the sky, his mind in Chicago.

He pictured Abby asleep on her pillow—the way he saw her several mornings ago when she awoke filled with anger. Now that he was foolish enough to leave her in a Paris hotel room with a note and a check, he was sure she emptied her mind of him once and for all.

"Maybe you ought to think about staying," Debbie suggested and moved closer to him.

"Maybe I should," he said to the air.

"We had a really long drive today." She put her hands on his shoulders and began kneading.

"Yeah, and I'm tired—it's been a rough few days," Carter said turning toward her, which forced her to release her grip on him.

"Oh . . . " said Debbie. "Well . . . okay . . . good-night."

"Good-night. Thanks for the lift."

Debbie watched as he walked up the steps to the clinic.

ABBY CHANGED THE baby's diaper once more, did her rounds in the main ward, and then went outside in the muggy evening air. She folded her arms across her chest, and rested one hip against the side of the building and wondered how she ended up in this place.

Albrecht came up behind her holding an open pack of cigarettes in one hand and two open bottles of beer in the other.

Abby slid one cigarette from the pack and reached for one of the bottles by the neck.

"It's sad here," Abby said into the breeze.

Albrecht assumed she was making conversation, but only she and her conscience heard the faint sound of an excuse for a smoke and a drink.

"You're helping to make it better."

"One person can't do anything."

"That's the _only_ way to do it. One person, then another and another . . ."

"You're one of those optimists, aren't you. I've heard about people like you," Abby teased.

"You don't look for the silver lining in the cloud?"

Abby exhaled loudly and thought a minute with pursed lips. Then she looked at him and said, "I wouldn't know what to do with the silver lining if I found it." Truer words were never spoken.

"Nah, that's not me," Albrecht explained. "If I ever feel helpless like that, I do something to remind myself that I am powerful and in control. You ought to give it a try."

"I'll do that," Abby smiled.

"Do you have family?" Albrecht asked.

"Mother and a brother."

"Miss them?"

"They don't know I'm here."

"No husband? Boyfriend? —If you don't mind my asking." He smiled boyishly and shook his blond hair from his green eyes.

Abby suspected he got away with a lot of things that way. But she didn't answer.

"Kovac? The doctor friend that's missing?"

"No."

"That 'Carter' guy?"

Once again she didn't answer, and he knew he struck a chord.

"He'll be worried to know you are here, I'm sure."

"I don't know about that."

She saw his face in her mind. She looked at the cigarette between her fingers—poised for lighting but as yet unlit. And she swirled the beer around in the bottle—open but as yet untouched.

Abby handed them both back to Albrecht. "Thanks anyway. Good night."

THE MORNING IN Matenda was bright and crystal clear, oddly free of the curtain of haze that usually hung in the air. When Carter opened his eyes he was surprised to be met by the sun—he expected to wake up earlier. As his head cleared he realized what kept him in bed longer then he expected was a vivid dream.

"You said her name."

"Huh?" Carter looked over at Luka, who appeared conscious, though his eyes were closed and his voice was weak.

"Abby."

"What?" Carter was confused.

"You said Abby's name in your sleep."

Carter stood and grabbed his stethoscope and listened to Luka's chest.

"I did?"

"Yes. Is she okay?"

"Well, she thinks you're dead, so she can't be _that_ okay. But you can take comfort in the fact that she probably wishes it were me."

"Sounds bad."

But Carter didn't respond. He busily assessed Luka's condition, which was weak but more stable than the night before.

"We're getting you out here today, my friend," Carter said.

But Luka once again drifted into sleep.

Carter walked outside to spend a few moments alone in the warm sunshine over by the fence. Luka confirmed for him that even his sleep was occupied with thoughts of Abby, even though she seemed to push him out of her head so easily.

_  
GAMMA DIED, AND the feeling of loss was compounded by Abby who, instead of helping him through the ordeal, ran to her brother's side when he called from a truck stop in Des Moines. She expected to be back that night. He waited for her—until he received a message from a motel that they'd missed their flight back to Chicago. Her voice was breezy and casual as if her presence could wait another day. As if it wouldn't matter to him. As if he didn't need her to be there with him. As if . . . _

_She called when she returned to Chicago the next day—several times in fact. But Carter was busy making arrangements—though he could probably have stopped for a moment and spoken to her. Finally, Margaret, the housekeeper, brought the phone to him, and there was nothing he could do but talk to her._

_"Dr. Carter, please. Miss Lockhart has called four times. I don't know what to say to her anymore."_

_He took the phone and rubbed the shoulder of the woman, who herself was dealing with the loss of someone who clearly was more than an employer to her. Carter took the call more to ease Margaret's stress than to hear Abby's voice._

_They spoke for a few minutes, and Carter was polite but distant. The harder Abby tried to make up for her "misdeed," the harder Carter pulled away._

"Can I help with the arrangements?" she offered.

"_No, it's tomorrow at 10."_

"What about picking out a casket . . . clothes?"

"_Dad and I went yesterday, and the staff at the house will dress her."_

"How about flowers…?"

"_Nah, I did all that. Lilies."_

"How about you?"

"_I'm okay."_

"Well, do you need some company?"

"_Nah, I'm staying at the house with my father."_

"What about your mom?"

"_Couldn't reach her."_

"I'm sorry."

"_Yeah, well, that's typical of her—she's never there when she's needed."_

"Maybe you . . . you and your dad . . . would like to get some fresh air. Want to grab a bite?"

"_There are people coming to the house all day—people from the Foundation and the Board, everybody trying to pay their respects. I can't really leave."_

_He could feel that he was hurting her, punishing her . . ._

"Do you still want me to come tomorrow?" she asked tentatively.

_. . . and he tried to fight it._

"_Yes, of course I do. I'll send a car for you—say, 9:30."_

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow."

"_Bye."_

"Bye. Call me if you need—" 

_But he had already hung up._

_It had worked. He had succeeded in making her feel bad, making her regret that she didn't ignore Eric to stay with him._

_So why didn't he feel better?_

_Because all he succeeded in doing was pushing away the one person in the world he needed most. The part of him that loved her so deeply battled with his spiteful spirit and made sure his conscience hurt. Nevertheless, his spite stood strong, while his heart missed her kiss and the touch of her hand on his arm._

"WHAT IS IT—a woman?" Bendu Nyobi's lilting accent jarred Carter back to the present. Bendu was younger-looking than his 50 years, owing to his large strong frame and imposing muscular physique that put younger men like Carter to shame. His dark-brown skin was pulled taught over every muscle, and the hot Congolese sun reflected off every one. His melodic form of English almost sounded like singing rather than speaking. His voice was a deep baritone, which added to his strong presence, as did his smooth, hairless torso.

Carter turned his head toward Bendu, who spoke from inside the screen door of the clinic. He smirked at Bendu's uncanny intuition.

Bendu stepped out onto the porch of the clinic. He filled his lungs with the clear air, came down the steps of the clinic, and sat near the bottom.

"Ahhh. It _is_ a woman," Bendu perceived and smiled broadly. "I've seen that look on the faces of many men." He let loose a hearty laugh that Carter found irresistible. He turned away from the fence and sat down on a tree stump across the way from Bendu.

"She is . . . _was_ . . . my girlfriend."

"You're not sure?"

"Well, she broke up with me . . . I think. And then I left, so . . ."

"This 'maybe/maybe-not' girlfriend—do you love her?"

Carter looked down and couldn't answer.

"Does she love you?"

"No."

"So where is she now?"

"I left her in France. I'm sure she's back in America by now."

"You took her to France only to leave her there?"

"I didn't take her there—she followed me to Paris to stop me from coming here."

"Let me understand." Bendu rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow, feigning confusion. "This woman who does _not_ love you dropped everything and left her home to fly across the ocean to _you_?"

Bendu's voice sang to Carter in so many ways.

"When I was 11 years old, I did something stupid," Bendu recounted in his beautiful accent. "My sister held a toy that my grandfather had given us. I was too impatient to wait my turn, and I grabbed the toy from my sister with such force that I cracked it into pieces so neither of us could play. My mother grabbed me by the hand and brought me to our drinking well and made me swallow a ladle of water in front of her. I said, _'Why Mama, why?'_ She said, _'Drink it, Bendu, I want to see where the water leaks out.'_ And I said, _'What do you mean, Mama?'_ And my mother came close to my face and said, _'Son, I am looking for the holes in your head.'_ "

"Dr. Carter," he continued. "I'd like to give you a glass of water right now." Bendu's laugh sent birds from their perch.

Carter smiled, and his face turned a little red. He admired Bendu's wisdom and had to admit that for first time in weeks the vision of Abby's face made him smile again. But how could Bendu know the depths of her disregard? At first he had no intention of sharing his pain with this stranger, but then—

"A few weeks ago, my grandmother died," Carter began. He picked up a small rock and pounded it on the side of a tree stump as he told his tale. "She was more like a mother to me than my own mother. I was the closest person to her, and I had to make all the arrangements. I needed Abby—that's her name. I needed here there—just this once. I needed her there for me the way I was always there for her. But she went to him instead. I mean, she just left—"

Carter choked. The pain was still fresh for him.

"Oh, so she made a choice and you lost? Who is this man she chose instead?"

"Her brother."

"Her brother? Well, then I see why you'd be threatened." Bendu laughed ferociously.

"You don't understand. He and her mother suffer from a mental illness that makes them behave—erratically. Her brother had disappeared. Of all days, he resurfaced _that_ day. She went to get him and try to coax him into treatment."

"Big responsibility."

"Her family's been her responsibility her whole life, since she was a little girl."

Bendu could see Carter's face soften when he pictured Abby as a child.

"I don't think she ever got to be a little girl," Carter said softly, caressing the rock in his hand now instead of pounding it against the stump.

"Sounds like she learned pretty early how to protect herself from the sadness. She learned to take charge—do what needs to be done without asking questions."

"I suppose," Carter said.

"The lessons of childhood are the deepest," Bendu observed. "They are automatic—like reflexes."

"_And I'll be back tonight—the flight's only an hour,"_ she had said.

"_Go get your brother. My grandmother will still be dead when you get back,"_ he answered.

He could make it hurt again just by thinking about it.

"Still—she should have stayed," Carter mumbled.

"Is that right?" And with that, Bendu reached down with one hand and grabbed a large rock as big as his huge palm and lobbed it directly at Carter's head. "Catch!"

"Hey!" Carter shouted and then dove to the ground. The big stone sailed passed him, narrowly missing his skull. It struck the fence behind him and gauged out a chunk of wood.

"What are you doing? You could have killed me!" Carter yelled as he sat in the dirt. He was breathing heavily from the near miss and began brushing the sand from his pants.

"No, your instincts protected you. You learned early—_big rock, big 'ouch.' _"

Bendu walked to Carter and towered over him on the ground.

"When your instinct is to protect yourself, it is not a choice."

He reached a hand down to help him up.

"You did not lose the competition, my friend," Bendu laughed as he walked away back up the stairs to the clinic, leaving Carter to shake the sand from his pants. "There was no competition to lose—the instinct to protect yourself is not a choice."

Before Bendu's words could sink in, Gillian was in front of him.

"John, do you think this is a good idea—to let Mr. Nyobi fly Luka to Kisangani?"

"Yes, I'll look after him. You drive back with Debbie and meet us at the hospital."

Gillian looked at the ground and sniffled a bit.

"He's going to be okay, Gillian. Don't worry."

Carter followed Bendu back into the rickety building. They gathered their belongings and placed Luka on a primitive stretcher—nothing more than a sheet woven around two wooden poles. They carried him half a kilometer through the grass to the piece of land least covered by foliage and thus deemed "the airstrip." The single-engine plane engine sputtered, and soon they were airborne and on their way to the outskirts of Kisangani, where Carter's recent journey had begun.

BACK AT THE hospital, Abby's eyes opened at dawn. It was not the first time she had awoken since she went to bed the night before. The time difference, impulsiveness of the journey, and the unfamiliar bed took their toll—as did the heat. So she found herself out of bed many times during the night and seized the opportunity to hand-wash her few articles of clothing in the tiny bathroom sink. Several times during the night, she stared outside the door of her bungalow and raised the courage to run at full speed through the darkness over to the hospital to check on the baby. She wasn't confident that anybody would feed her, change her, or hold her when she needed it.

This morning when Abby arrived at the makeshift nursery, she found the baby awake and fidgeting badly in the arms of Damon Albrecht.

"Ahhh. I think she wants _you_," he said, and he handed Abby the infant.

Abby took her, and immediately the emptiness of the long night disappeared.

"So what have you decided to call her?"

"I can't—really, I can't."

"Please."

"I shouldn't . . ."

"Yes, you should."

"It's not right."

"Not _right_? What's not right is that a living soul shouldn't have a name because of the misfortune of being born an orphan."

Abby thought about his words. He made sense.

"Well, her mother's name was Nicolette . . ."

"Wasn't very lucky for her though, was it?"

"No, but it would be nice for a daughter to keep part of her mother with her. How about just . . . _Colette_?"

"Baby Colette, nice to meet you."

At first, Abby wasn't even sure she liked the name. But as she looked at the infant, she thought it suited her well—it was dainty and feminine yet not so cute as to be weak.

"Colette," Abby repeated, rocking her.

"I thought I would find you here—I have news."

"News?"

"About your friend, Luka Kovac. The team the Alliance dispatched found him yesterday—alive. We heard from one of the contractors via radio during the trauma yesterday. I'm sorry the message sat until this morning."

Abby was elated, and her eyes smiled as widely as her mouth. "How? What?"

"Dr. Kovac was working at the clinic in Matenda. There was a lot of fighting in the area, and the clinic was abandoned, but Kovac remained with a handful critical patients who couldn't be moved. Apparently, there was firefight that damaged the clinic. The Alliance hired a team to dig through the debris. They recovered three bodies—a woman and two children—and they found Dr. Kovac, who survived. The contractor radioed yesterday that he'll airlift Kovac here to the hospital today."

It was just like Luka to stay with the critical patients. Anger at him fought with her admiration, while relief spread through her body.

"I thought you might like to know," he said.

"Thank you."

"When you're through here, Abigail, I need temps and pressures on all the new ones in the ward."

"Sure—but . . . uhhh . . . Damon? Was there . . . anyone else . . . with Luka when he was found?" Abby asked tentatively.

"Not that I know of. The message just said the contractor found him and would fly him in."

She gave him a quick tight-lipped smile, and he left. She was alone again with the baby. She liked it that way—even though the infant's soft smell and even softer skin made her think of Carter whether she wanted to or not. It was a strange uncontrollable feeling—strongest when the baby was hungry, and Abby could feel the tickles of her tiny mouth and little soft tongue against her neck or shoulder or chest. Abby's anger at Carter waned a little every hour simply because it was replaced by worry. He was still out there out looking for Luka. She was sure he wouldn't stop until he found him. He could be relentless that way.

_  
THE MILITARY POLICE snatched Eric from under her eyes, and she was helpless to do anything but watch. What was worse—Eric blamed her. Worse than that—he was right. But Abby could see his illness building. She knew he was sick, just like Maggie. And she needed to find where they took him. She got a flight to his Air Force base near Omaha, Nebraska, and left directly from work. She didn't know how to negotiate a military installation, but as it turned out, she would have help. Carter, who had a shift he couldn't switch, asked Michael Gallant to accompany Abby. Gallant was an officer in the Army as well as a med student and could help her by "speaking the lingo" to the other military folk. _

_As they walked to the taxi, Abby asked Carter to pack a bag with a few things for her before he met her in Nebraska the next morning. She needed a few T-shirts and also some underwear. She was careful to caution him to "pull from the top" where she kept her "respectable" undergarments. Of course, the discussion evoked thoughts of the silky things she kept on the bottom, which he forced out of his mind._

_A sweet hug, and she was off. He'd have to memorize what she felt like for a night. He slapped the roof of the taxi, signaling they were ready to move, and he watched as the cab pulled away—just in time for the first snowflakes of the season to fall. And they fell and fell and fell until the next morning. The city awoke under a blanket of white. The trains and planes stayed tucked in an extra day, and the pilots rolled over and went back to sleep._

_When she arrived in Nebraska, she found Eric—and Maggie—and sent Gallant on his way. She stayed behind to struggle with Eric, suddenly on the inside of bipolar disorder, and Maggie, suddenly not._

_How lucky could she be? She sat on the steps of the military facility, and he surprised her by driving up in a rented car despite all the talk of snowed-in Chicago. A smile of disbelief crossed her face. He was so pleased with himself that his surprise worked. He walked over to her. She stood on the step where she had been sitting, which put her face to face with him, though he normally towered over her. She hesitated a minute and just looked at him, and then slipped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tightly. He couldn't stop smiling. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder, grateful for his friendly face in the line of enemy fire. She held on tight and didn't let go until she heard Maggie's voice over her shoulder._

"_John!"_

_They pulled away from each other at the sound of his name. It hurt a little._

"_How are you, Maggie?" He kissed Abby's mother on the cheek as she approached him on the stairs. "You're looking very well."_

"_Thank you. I'm sorry to interrupt," she said and turned to her daughter. "Abby, I got us a room at the Holiday Inn just outside the base."_

_Maggie looked at Carter._

"_It was nice of you to come for Abby, John."_

"_I'm sorry that Eric's having a rough time now," he answered._

"_Thank you. Look, John, why don't I call back and get a room for you, too, while Abby fills you in."_

"_That'll be good, Maggie."_

"_Thanks, Mom," Abby said._

"_Okay, I'll be right back."_

_When she was gone, Carter and Abby resumed their hug. She told of her frustration in his ear. _

"_Eric's sick, Carter, and he knows it, and he's mad at me for seeing it."_

_He pulled away to look at her. "It's going to be hard for him now. You think they'll Court Marshal him?"_

"_No, they'll probably discharge him, though, on the condition that he gets treatment," she explained and then turned the subject to him. "How did you get a flight?"_

_He looked at her with a smirk. "I didn't."_

"_Then how—" She thought a minute. "Did you drive all the way from Chicago?"_

"_The highways were pretty clear. Once I got out of Illinois, there was hardly any snow. Only took about eight or nine hours."_

"_Only eight or nine hours?"_

_He tilted his head from side to side meaning more or less._

"_How much more?"_

"_Never mind. I got here. That's all that matters."_

_Perhaps another woman would have smothered him with kisses and cried at the beautiful gesture. Not Abby. She looked at him with wide eyes, forever surprised at any kind gesture someone presented her with—even Carter._

_Later, when Maggie was asleep, she slipped out of the sliding glass doors of their second-story motel room and rendezvoused with Carter on their adjoining balconies. She sat on a patio chair and recounted how Gallant struggled to cajole superior officers out of information. How Eric refused to see her. How she couldn't get clear information from the Air Force attorneys and doctors. And of course, she told him of Maggie._

_Carter sat on the wooden wall separating their balconies, his legs dangling a bit. He listened to her every word._

"_You must be exhausted," she said finally. She got up and stepped between his legs and wound her arms around his waist. "Thank you for coming," she whispered against his chest._

_He whispered back, "You're welcome." He pulled her close against him, stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head. "Everything's going to be okay."_

_He would have walked the 500 miles._

"_You'd better get some rest," she ordered and pulled away._

"_Okay. I brought your bag, by the way. I'll get it for you. It's out in the car." He spun his legs around and dropped onto his side of the wall. "Meet me out front."_

_He went back in his room, grabbed his keys, and met her a few minutes later at the front door of the room she shared with Maggie._

"_Thanks," she said. As she reached for the blue canvas bag, he reached for her wrist and pulled her outside the room with him onto the second-story walkway. He stepped backward until he was up against the railing overlooking the motel parking lot. He lifted her wrist up to his shoulder—she didn't need any more coaxing after that. She lifted her other hand until both her arms encircled his neck, and she gave him what he wanted—a proper good-night kiss. She leaned her whole body against him. As they kissed, he clutched her tightly. With her arms up around his neck, her shirt lifted and he rested his hands up under the material. He caressed the skin on her back and the curve of her waist, tickling her slightly. She let her head fall back and her eyes drift closed, and the tension waned from her body. _

"_Abby?"_

_It was Maggie's voice._

"_Abby is that you out there?" She yelled from her bed inside the motel room._

_Carter had to lean his head all the way back to pull his lips away from Abby's. She wouldn't let go._

"_Your mom's calling you," he informed her._

"_I know." And she reached up to reconnect with his lips._

"_Abby!" Maggie yelled this time._

_He pulled his head away and laughed. "Aren't you going to answer her?"_

"_No." And she stood on her tiptoes to make up the distance between her mouth and his._

"_Abby, come on," he said, only half teasing. "Answer her."_

_She let out a big sigh. "Yes, Mom. It's me."_

"_Abby the door's open, and it's chilly. Don't you think it's chilly?"_

"_I'll be in a minute!" Abby answered, feeling 16 years old. She aimed for his mouth again._

"_Oh. Hello, John," Maggie appeared at the door, tying her bathrobe. _

"_Hi, Maggie," he said, righting himself after leaning on the railing and releasing Abby's arms from around his neck. "I brought Abby a bag of some things she may need . . . from home . . . from her home . . . from Chicago . . . just things . . . things she may need." Carter suddenly felt awkward as Maggie took on the mother role, and Abby smiled at this side of him she'd never seen._

_Maggie smiled. "That was nice of you, John. I'm sorry I didn't know you were out here with Abby. I thought she came out for a cigarette. She still has that nasty habit, you know."_

"_Okay, Mom! I'll be right in." She rolled her eyes, and Carter caught it._

"_Good-night, John. Thank you again for coming." She flashed him a charming smile that he returned._

_Maggie closed the door. _

"_I'd better go in and keep an eye on her." _

"_She seems like she's doing well."_

"_We'll see." _

_Carter noticed that Abby did not seem comfortable with her mother medicated and rational. "I'll see you in the morning," he said. He kissed her forehead and touched the tip of her nose with his finger._

"_Good-night."_

"_Hey," he said to get her attention as she reached for the doorknob to her room. She looked over at him. _

_His eyes lingered on hers a moment, and then he reminded her, "I'm here if you need me."_

_Now she was the one to flash the pretty smile. She wanted so much to sleep next to him that night, but the other side of the wall would have to do._

_Maggie quickly fell asleep again on one of the two full-size beds in the fairly large rectangular room. Abby turned out the lights, and the room was bathed in the gray-blue light of the television screen. She took the bag Carter brought and tiptoed into the bathroom. She flicked on the light, turned the water on in the shower, set the bag on the toilet, and opened it. He did as he promised and packed her a few T-shirts and underwear—respectable white and pink cotton numbers, as she asked. But at the bottom of the bag she noticed a plain manila envelope—the type in which you'd find business correspondence. Only this one was filled with something soft. She tore it open, and turned it over to empty the contents. Out slid her lavender bra, the one with the tiny white satin butterfly between the dainty cups. She shook a little harder, and out slid the matching panties and a slip of paper. It read: "Oops. I pulled these from the bottom."_

ABBY HELD THE warm little baby close to her neck, her little round head in her right hand and her little round bottom in her left. Abby kissed her soft small cheek and the infant snuggled against her shoulder. Abby touched a little whisp of the baby's hair with her fingertips, closed her eyes, and spoke under her breath, "Where is he, Colette?"

IT WAS DARK in the windowless rear cabin of the small cargo plane, which made it a challenge for Carter to check Luka's eyes and ears. Luka lay on a stretcher strapped tightly, and Carter sat next to him on a wooden box. The rickety plane was small—a seat for the pilot and one next to that. The rest of the plane was dark and empty, and the noise of the engine made every word a shout.

Luka woke up about half an hour into the flight.

"I thought you left days ago," he said, struggling to push out the words. His eyes were barely open.

"I did," Carter answered as he checked Luka's pulse.

"Then what are you doing back?"

"A friend needed my help."

Luka smiled. "I thought maybe you had a fight with Abby," he teased.

"That, too." Carter smiled, but Luka could see it hid something bitter.

"Call her," Luka said.

"Lost my cell phone," was Carter's excuse.

"Don't make a mistake, John. Call her." Luka was serious this time.

Carter reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a pen-size flashlight to check Luka's eyes. _Click._ It didn't light. _Click, click._ Nothing. _Click, click, click._ It wasn't working. Yet suddenly, Luka's eyes were bathed in a bright, narrow strip of light. Carter looked to his side and followed the light and saw the source was a small, round hole in the hull of the plane. At first, it puzzled Carter, but in an instant, there was another hole just like it and another and then another, another, and another. Until he realized the plane was being sprayed by bullets.

"Hey! They're shooting at us!" Carter yelled to Bendu, who was piloting. He ducked to the floor and covered his head with his arms. "_Heyyyyyyy_!"

ABBY SAT ON the edge of the bed of a 6-year-old boy and fed him water one spoonful at a time as he recovered from surgery to remove a bullet from his neck. Then she took the temperature of a woman being treated for a bacterial infection and dressed the wound of an elderly man cut with a farming tool. In between her work in the ward, she scrubbed her hands clean and spent every moment she could with Colette. She held her and changed her cloth diaper and then washed the old one by hand in a kettle of hot water. She'd linger over her feeding to play with her and watched her as she fell asleep in her arms. Abby thought Colette got more beautiful with each passing hour as her newborn puffiness subsided. Her skin stayed the color of coffee with lots and lots of cream. Her dark eyelashes were oddly long for such tiny baby and they hid her unusually light eyes. Her sweet lips were the color of cherries.

Abby was busy kissing Colette's tiny hands when she heard a commotion outside.

She tucked her back in the makeshift crib. The baby was fully awake but in good humor, so Abby was able to step away and see what the stir was all about.

"ARE YOU OKAY?" Bendu yelled to Carter.

"No holes, if that's what you're asking, " Carter shouted back.

"How is Dr. Kovac?"

"Out cold but in one piece," Carter yelled back. "How's the plane? I smell smoke."

"I think the wing's on fire," Bendu said as he tried to peer out the side of the plane.

"We've got to land," Carter yelled.

"We are almost at the hospital in Kisangani," Bendu yelled to Carter. "Three kilometers or so. I am going to try to keep us the air until then."

"We've got to land _NOW!_" Carter voice was shaking with fear.

Bendu shouted back: "Believe me, you don't want to be stuck in the jungle with a sick man and a sick plane."

Bendu struggled to keep the plane in the sky, but as the earth pulled it nearer, the plane bumped into treetops.

"Dr. Carter, hold on!" Bendu yelled. _"Hold on!"_

"WHAT'S GOING ON?" Abby asked as she came down the wooden steps of the hospital with her arms folded across her chest. She walked out into the sun over to Albrecht. He and the rest of the staff were outside looking skyward, their hands shielding their eyes from the sun. Abby followed their gaze and her eyes fell upon the smoky injured plane in the sky.

The ambushed craft wafted along the trees struggling desperately to maintain altitude.

"Oh my God," Abby gasped.

"It's the plane from the clinic in Matenda, Abigail. Looks like it's been hit," Albrecht said and put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Hit?" Abby asked, suddenly shivering despite the blistering sun.

"Fired on. Machine gun—turret-mounted probably. These plane don't fly very high."

"_Luka,"_ Abby whispered to the air and took a few steps forward. She felt helpless as she watched the aircraft sail through the sky like a paper plane.

Albrecht yelled over to some of the men watching with them. "We're going to need stretchers for the pilot and Dr. Kovac." And they ran inside at his orders.

They all watched as the plane dropped from the sky about a kilometer from where they stood. And when it fell, Abby's heart fell, too. All was still, hearts stopped, breathing ceased. And then in a moment an explosion could be heard, muted by the dense jungle but identified by the large plume of smoke and fire that trailed up to the sky.

"Come on!" Albrecht yelled and the whole staff followed him and ran toward the crash site, including Abby.

Albrecht stopped, grabbed Abby's arm, and pulled her back. "No, Abigail, stay here with the patients."

"No!" she yelled, anxious to get to Luka.

"Abigail stay here!"

"You're going to need help!"

"Somebody needs to watch these patients."

"But I want to—"

"Stay here with Colette . . . _please_."

He looked deep in her eyes and gripped her wrist tightly. He breathed deeply, and the scar that ran from his hairline to the corner of his eye grew a darker shade of red. She nodded and obeyed and just watched as they ran over brush and grass and through the trees toward the plume of smoke.

Abby walked back into the main ward shivering. She crossed her arms hard across her chest to keep herself from shaking. And as she walked toward the back of the long ward, each patient to the left and right of her lifted their head and followed her with their eyes as she passed them. They were all curious about the commotion and frightened by the absence of personnel in the already sparsely staffed hospital.

When she reached the end of the long row of beds she turned around and began checking I.V.'s one by one, but she saw the patients' nervous faces and stammered through an explanation.

"An airplane . . . it crashed." She said to her captive audience.

"They were flying a patient—a doctor—who was sick."

Her English puzzled them.

She spread her arms like the wings of a plane.

"But they shot at the plane. _Pow, pow_." She made the sound of the gun and they all noticed her shaky voice and watery eyes.

" . . . and the plane came down." She grabbed an emesis basin, held it up, and let it drop to the floor with a crash.

They understood.

She let no tears fall in front of the patients—people who had far more misfortune than she. But she struggled to hold them back and contorted her face to contain them so she could attend to the patients. And as she adjusted the I.V. on an elderly woman, the patient reached up and took Abby's hand and bid her not to cry, _"Ne pas pleurer, cher."_

Abby was touched by the gesture, but the woman's kindness only served to release her sobs. With the ward quiet, Abby excused herself and went into the makeshift nursery and saw Colette had fallen into a peaceful sleep. Abby knew she shouldn't disturb her, but she picked up the infant and woke her nonetheless. The baby squealed at first and then began to shriek. She locked her tiny knees in protest and flexed her heels. She waved her quivering arms in fury. Knowing no one could hear her over the baby's wails, Abby cried, too. Far from home in uncomfortable heat with horrible food surrounded by dying patients, an orphaned baby, and Luka likely dead—_again_: It was all too much for her—especially since Carter was nowhere in sight. When did it happen? When did she grow accustomed to leaning on him? She couldn't remember. All she knew was that she needed him now.

As she soothed the baby, Abby comforted herself: "Shhhhh. It's going to be okay. Everything's going to be all right."

Colette quieted down and fell back to sleep in Abby's arms. She tucked her into the bed just as shouts approached the building. She went to the door and was met by two young men carrying a stretcher. Angelique was behind. "Bring the pilot to the trauma room," she said to the men. Abby stepped aside to let them pass.

Behind Angelique, Guillaume, the driver who picked her up at the airport along with Albrecht and Claire, carried a stretcher with the help of another young man. On the stretcher was Luka.

"Put him in the isolation ward," Angelique told Guillaume. It was the little room off the main ward with its own separate entrance courtesy of a broken screen door.

"Luka," Abby whispered when she saw him. He was unconscious, unshaven, and bruised—a far cry from the handsome, well-groomed doctor she dated for a year.

"He's okay," Angelique said. The pilot said he was under the rubble of the damaged clinic for a couple of days. He's dehydrated and banged up. But he was strapped down tight and the pilot managed to drag him out.

Abby mouthed, _"Oh, my God."_

Explanations over with, Angelique began barking orders, and everyone obeyed.

"Abby, I need some 5-0 silk for the pilot's forehead and _mwah bwah mah mwah wah . . . _"

Angelique's voice became a muffled swirl of sound in Abby's mind as something caught her eye outside the doors of the main ward. She watched carefully and tilted her head curiously. She caught sight of Albrecht approaching the wooden stairs of the hospital. His knees struggled to manage the weight of a man in his arms.

"Get me a stretcher!" Albrecht yelled. "He's not conscious, and he's got a chest lac."

Abby's feet were stuck to the floor and wouldn't let her move. She studied the picture carefully, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. But when Albrecht reached the top step, her fears were confirmed, and a wave of nausea flushed over her: The man Damon Albrecht carried in his arms was Carter, and the "chest lac" was a deep and bloody gash over his heart.

He fell out of the sky.

_Next—_

_Chapter Five: Tell Me, Can You Feel Me?_


	5. Tell Me, Can You Feel Me?

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

_**CHAPTER FIVE: TELL ME, CAN YOU FEEL ME? **_

**_Rating_: PG-13 (or the new equivalent) with cautioning for romantic situations.**

**_Summary_: The aftermath of the injured plane and the fate of its passengers highlight the chapter. Timing and destiny play ironic games once again. Abby gets a chance to look in the mirror, while the tiny baby gets under her skin.**

**_Disclaimer_: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks.**

**_Author's Note_: Relief or anger? Love or pain? What would you feel if you were them? If we expected things to be black and white, we would watch another show. This is another extremely long chapter that sets the stage for the drama to come. Lots of subtext, if you like that sort of stuff. **

**Hearing from you has been so nice—and helps me gauge how well things are coming across. Thank you so very, very much.

* * *

**

_FATE HIDES IN the sky behind the stars and arranges the destiny of souls like pieces in a chess game._

"That's nasty," said Albrecht as he stuck his finger into the 3-inch cut across Carter's chest. He lifted the skin up and away from the muscle below. Abby couldn't help herself when she reached over him to smooth it down again. Carter didn't feel any of it, as he was having trouble maintaining consciousness. However, even in his state, his arm rested beneath his back, guarding the memory of a painful assault.

"He should be fine once we stitch him up, right?" Abby knew the answer but needed reassurance.

"Right?" She repeated trying to get Albrecht's attention during the chaos.

"He's going to be okay, right?" Abby persisted.

"He'll be fine," Albrecht finally answered.

Abby wanted more. "He's out cold. Shouldn't he get a head CT or something?"

"Where would you propose we do that?" Albrecht asked.

Abby sighed heavily. "This is insane," she muttered as her eyes scanned the understaffed, ill-equipped hospital. She angrily folded her arms across her chest and tossed her head to free her eyes of fallen strands of hair.

"Abigail, I checked him out. He is in and out—not out cold. We'll x-ray his skull to check for a fracture, but I think he's going to be fine."

Carter was lucky—he _and_ Luka were lucky—that Bendu the pilot was able to drop the plane through some trees, which served to break its fall. Once on the ground, Bendu thought quickly and jumped from his seat, flung open the cargo hold, and in one motion slid Luka's stretcher out of the plane. He went back and dragged Carter out by the foot just as the smoldering wing ignited the gas tank. Then he collapsed himself. Right now, Bendu lay conscious with a bloody gash to the forehead in the trauma room.

Luka lay a few yards from Carter in the isolation ward. He was unconscious, dehydrated, and bruised as much from the collapse of the Matenda clinic as from the plane crash.

"If we can get the x-ray equipment up and running, I'd like to check Carter's back," Albrecht said. "He complained of pain when I found him."

"He had a back injury. He was stabbed," Abby explained.

"Really?" Albrecht asked. "Mugging?"

"No." Abby answered. She suspected he was teasing, but she was never sure.

"Well, he doesn't really seem the type for bar brawl. Vengeful lover maybe?" He winked at her.

"Patient had a psychotic episode," Abby answered abruptly. "He stabbed Carter and killed a med student." She let her fingers brush through Carter's hair.

Albrecht realized his humor was not appreciated.

"Let me set up x-ray for both of them. Then I'm going to need to suture that chest lac."

"Can I do it?" Abby asked, but Albrecht ignored her to go rev up the 1983 x-ray machine.

She turned to Angelique, who was setting up an I.V. to rehydrate Luka on the other side of the room.

"Is it all right if I stitch up Dr. Carter?"

"Have you sutured before, Abby?"

"Many times. I was a med student before I went back to nursing."

"Then go ahead—one less thing for the doctors to do."

Abby looked up just as Claire entered. She was the nurse Abby met in the Paris airport with Albrecht.

"Damon is setting up in x-ray. Who first?" Claire asked Angelique.

"Let's get Dr. Kovac in first. Did the supplies come?" Angelique asked.

"Yes—no lidocaine, but there's Cipro this time, and some vaccine—Rubella, I think. Damon wants to make a run to the camps as soon as Carter, Kovac, and the pilot are stable."

They released the lock on Luka's stretcher and wheeled him out.

"Abby, go ahead and stitch him up," Angelique said regarding Carter. "Whatever's lido's over there is yours, but that's it. Lucky for him he got a knock on the head, eh? I'll do the pilot's forehead lac."

_Ha ha, lucky for him . . . _Abby was too worried to see humor.

Abby gathered suturing supplies on a little cart near Carter. She went across into the makeshift nursery where Colette slept peacefully and grabbed a small white cloth and a little bowl. She filled the bowl with warm water from the sink and brought the bowl and cloth with her to the isolation room. With her foot, Abby closed the heavy wooden door that separated the isolation room from the main ward and pulled up a stool next to Carter. Alone in the room with him, she immersed the clean cloth in the warm water, wrung it out, and gently began wiping the dust from his face and the blood from his torso. As she worked, she stared at him and wondered if he'd wake up and know she was there taking care of him.

Soon the soft, damp cloth on his body erased the pained look on Carter's face. But for Abby, the pain starting growing the more she touched him—pain confused with worry and mixed with anger and tinged with . . . love. When he seemed to relax, she inched closer to him and spoke to him in whispers.

"I'm so mad at you," she said softly while she rinsed the cloth in the bowl and wiped his forehead. Her lower lip quivered.

"How could you just leave me like that?" She covered her index finger with the damp cloth and wiped it across the lips she'd kissed so many times. Her throat tightened.

"Didn't you even think about—?" Her whispers got caught behind the lump in her throat.

Abby filled a syringe with the bit of local anesthetic that Angelique left and injected it into the skin on Carter's chest. She prepared her needle and began.

_One, two . . . _

She threaded two sutures through his cut, and he stirred a bit.

"Shhhh, it's okay. It's me. You're going to be fine." And she kissed him gently on his temple.

From beyond the door, she began to hear the mild cries of Colette.

_Three, four, five . . . _

Carter began to shift uncomfortably. She grabbed the syringe and tried to eek out any remaining medication from it.

Colette began to fret loudly in her nursery.

_Six, seven, eight . . . _

When she pierced his skin this last time, his eyelids began to flutter.

Carter couldn't see anything. Even if he could, his lids would not stay open no matter how hard he pulled them apart. He tried to sense where he was, who he was, and how he got to . . . wherever this place was. But there was something familiar surrounding him—he could smell Abby's skin. It was the same soft scent he memorized when he left their Paris hotel room. He could smell her skin and feel her touch.

"John, can you hear me?"

His chest moved with uneven breaths. His throat was dry, making it hard to swallow.

"Abby?" he said in a short whisper. His eyes still closed.

"Yes."

"I can . . . _feel_ you."

Her worry ate away at her rage and completely consumed it. There was no stopping the tears now, and she wiped them on her sleeve.

"Everything is going to be okay," she sniffled.

"It hurts."

"I'm trying not to hurt you."

Colette cried loudly now on the other side of the door. The baby tried desperately to connect with Abby, and it upset Abby even more to ignore Colette while she finished Carter's sutures.

_Nine, ten . . ._

"Abby, you're hurting me." He grimaced.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

_Eleven, twelve._

"I'm done. It's not going to hurt anymore."

"Abby, I'm sorry—"

"We'll talk about it when we get out of here."

"I miss you." And his eyes slipped closed again.

"Carter?"

Abby looked up as the sound of Colette's shrieks grew closer and closer. Soon the heavy wooden door creaked open, and Claire entered. In her arms she held Colette, her little face was red and her legs thrashed about. Claire held a baby bottle in her hand.

"Sorry, but Angelique says she's disturbing the patients. I changed her diaper—the ones on the line, right? And I tried to feed her but—"

Abby removed her gloves and got up.

"Thanks, I'll take her." She dug the infant from Claire's arms. "She's not hungry, she just wants to be held."

Abby read the baby in a way that she couldn't read Carter.

"Sorry," Claire said.

"Thanks for trying," Abby said. "Sometimes she's a little cranky."

"Aren't we all?" Claire said and leaned her shoulder against the doorframe of the room.

Abby smiled at Claire, who had a friendly smile of her own that made you relax in her presence. She was blond and attractive—older than Abby by only a few years, but her sun-leathered skin made it seem like more.

"You doing okay?" Claire asked.

"Yeah."

"Sorry I got you into all this."

Abby looked at Carter, who now lay peacefully on the table, and said, "I'm actually glad I'm here, if you can believe it."

"These guys were lucky," Claire observed tactfully.

"Yeah."

"Oh, I almost forgot. As soon as you're done, Damon wants you to go on the vaccination run with us."

"Vaccination run?"

"When fresh vaccine is delivered, we put the word out and go to the refugee camps as fast as we can. There isn't good refrigeration here, so we have to distribute it as fast as possible. Today we got Rubella. We'll save some lives today."

"I'll be there," Abby said. From the corner of her eye she saw Carter drifting into consciousness on the table. She began impatiently shifting from foot to foot with the baby in her arms, hoping Claire would leave.

"When you're done, join us out front, okay?"

"Sure thing."

Colette was calm in Abby's arms and was content to grab the stretchy cotton of her shirt and tug at it for amusement. Abby walked over to Carter, who stirred slightly on the table. With one hand, she rubbed his forehead.

"Shhh, it's okay," she reassured him.

Carter managed to open his eyes a bit; focusing was another challenge. But through the fog of pain and weak consciousness, he made out the vision of Abby and a—_baby_?

With one hand, Abby cleaned up her supplies and did not notice at first when Colette released her grip on her shirt and instead grabbed a newborn fistful of Carter's hair.

"No baby, let go." Abby laughed a little and grabbed her tiny hand to prevent her from pulling too hard. "Colette, let go honey." She pried her little fingers off his soft brown hair, but the baby held onto him. "Colette!" Abby said firmly and finally extricated the tiny fist from his head.

She smoothed down his hair and was rewarded with his open eyes on her. He blinked rapidly as he tried to avoid the harsh overhead light, which pulled his pupils into points and made his head hurt—more than it already did.

_Where is this place?_ Carter tried once again to remember what happened to him—to his life. He blinked and blinked again until he was able to make out Abby's warm, round brown eyes and softly sloping nose. He could see those familiar full lips. Her hair was twisted into a barrette but several pieces cascaded over and made pretty strings around her head. In her arms, she indeed held a tiny baby. He could see her kiss and soothe the child, and the sight made the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile.

"Hi," she said, still touching his hair.

"Hi" he said. "_What am I doing here? Are you okay? Whose baby is that? Where have you been? Is that my patient in Trauma 2? I thought Kerry had you on nights this week . . ."_

Abby touched his hair and saw his lips moving, but all that came out was a groan.

_She can't hear me, he thought. She doesn't know what I'm feeling._

"It's okay," she said. "Things are going to get better."

_Things are going to get better._

He couldn't place anything; he didn't know where he was—until she said those words. It all came back to him.

He remembered.

_It was an hour or two after Gamma's funeral—after Abby's brother Eric made a mockery of Gamma's farewell. He came to the hospital to look for her but got sucked into the ER vortex, as was bound to happen. Abby found him in the middle of a trauma but insisted that he let Chen take it. He did and pounded through the doors from Trauma 1 to Trauma 2 to Sutures, and she followed._

"_Why don't we just get out of here?" she had said. _

"_I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have come," he said._

"_It's okay," she said. "Things are going to get better."_

"_Can you do me a favor?"_

"_Yeah."_

And suddenly Carter's memory of that day weeks ago slipped out of his lips and landed on Abby's ears with a thud.

"Can you leave me alone?"

She was startled—just as she was the first time she heard those words—and she stepped back from his stretcher.

"What?" Abby said—her pain drawn to the surface by his sentence.

But once again his eyes drifted closed, and his head dropped to one side.

Just then the heavy wooden door opened, and Albrecht peeked his head around.

"How did it go?" he said, and then invited himself into the room. He stretched on sterile gloves.

"I—I managed to close it with just 12," Abby said composing herself and pointing to her perfect suture line.

Albrecht touched it with his gloved finger.

"Beautiful job," he said.

"But he started coming around when I was suturing," Abby said. She lifted the empty lidocaine syringe and dropped it down hard. "I hurt him—more than I thought." Abby said to the air.

"Well, you probably got his attention at least," he said, dismissing her thinly disguised complaint with thinly disguised humor. "Angelique will take him shortly to x-ray his skull. But we've got to go, Abigail. You're coming with us to inoculate the children in the camps. That vaccine only stays fresh for so long. We've loaded the truck. Put the baby down and meet me outside."

Albrecht tossed his blond bangs and swung open the door, leaving as quickly as he came in.

She turned to look at Carter one more time, but she couldn't bring herself to touch him, uncertainty being a powerful repellent. Instead, she cupped the baby's tiny head in her hand, held her against her shoulder, and kissed her tiny ear. She slowly backed toward the door and watched him the whole way, unwilling to sacrifice a moment of the sight of him. And when she could go no further, she turned and left.

Carter could tell she was gone even with his eyes closed. He breathed as deeply as he could, but he couldn't capture the softness again. His eyes fluttered open, trying to find her.

Angelique entered, released the lock on his stretcher, and began to move him toward the x-ray room.

"Glad to see you're trying to come around, John." Angelique said to him.

But a powerful emptiness crept over him. Carter closed his eyes and crawled deep into his head once again . . .

"John. _John!_"

. . . because when he searched for Abby in his mind, he never, ever failed to find her.

_  
PRINCE CHARMING WAS dressed and ready to go to the Carter Foundation event and give away a small piece of his fortune to ensure good concert tickets for the rest of Gamma's life. However, he took on one last patient, though it threatened to make him late. It was a woman hurt in a motor vehicle accident along with her husband. Jessie Callahan was her name. Her injuries were severe and ultimately fatal. Her husband, Tom, would survive with surgery, but he wouldn't allow them to take him to the O.R. without seeing Jessie—he wanted to be there with her and hold her hand when she passed. _

_Carter left the trauma room but looked back through the doors just as Tom Callahan was wheeled beside his dying wife. He recognized that kind of love. He felt it every time he conjured up Abby's face in his mind. _

_Carter shed his paper gown, exposing his tuxedo underneath. When he looked down the hall, he spotted Abby waiting for him by the desk wearing a pretty black dress. She smiled and tossed him a little wave to signal she was ready for their evening. She was beautiful. Her golden hair drew him like a light, and he flew to her._

_He gave away $10 million that night toward a concert hall or something else he regarded as insignificant. He cringed when his name was called to present the check and flatly refused his grandmother's request to serve on the board of the Foundation, knowing it would virtually guarantee a lifetime of check presentations._

_Abby felt differently—and was happy to tell him so. She saw a world of opportunity to put his generosity to good use. He saw nothing but shame. What bothered Abby most was that this John Carter, the one born into privilege, did not like himself very much._

_She talked to him about his shame. She badgered him to change the Foundation's priorities, if he so chose. She implored him to use the money to help people rather than deny its existence. But clearly the money represented something more to him, and they argued. _

_The ride back to her apartment was silent until they pulled up in front of her building._

"_Good-night," he said._

"_Good-night?" she repeated indignantly. She was expecting something more like, "I'm sorry."_

"_I've got an errand to run," he said._

"_Errand?"_

_He was silent and offered no explanation. _

"_You're not coming upstairs?" she asked._

"_No, I—"_

"_Fine. Don't come up." She opened the door of the Jeep._

"_Abby, wait." He grabbed her wrist. She didn't struggle—she wanted him to stop her. She slid back into her seat._

"_It's McNulty."_

_Abby knew Dr. McNulty was an old-school physician that ran an inner-city clinic out of a storefront. Abby liked him—so did Carter. He was an occasional patient at County. McNulty ran his clinic on a shoestring, and Abby knew Carter admired him._

"_His nurse came to see me today. I'm going to bring him a six-month supply of Actos for his diabetes—he won't come back to the hospital. Says he's too busy seeing patients all day."_

"_You want me to come with you?"_

"_No, I'll see you tomorrow." He caressed her wrist, which he still held in his hand, and leaned over and kissed her to declare a truce._

_Carter stopped by the clinic, gave McNulty the medicine, and offered him some money for new equipment, which McNulty refused. He put a broom in Carter's hands instead. Carter humored him and vowed to himself that he'd come back one day with a check that McNulty couldn't refuse . . . _

_When Carter left, he headed toward his apartment but soon found himself right near Abby's building. He circled it over and over again until his cell phone rang._

"_Hello?"_

"_What are you doing?" Abby's voice asked._

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Why are you driving around my building?"_

_He said, "I feel bad about tonight."_

"_Me, too."_

" _I know you were just trying to help, Abby, but I've had to deal with this my whole life . . ."_

"_No, you've avoided it your whole life—ran away from it."_

_He was quiet. She knew him so well._

"_Come up or go home, Prince Charming," she teased._

_A few minutes later his key was in the door._

"_You look tired," she said from her spot on the couch._

"_I am."_

_He walked straight into her bedroom, stripped above the waist, and lay down on his stomach with his back to the door._

_Abby followed a few minutes later. She was already dressed for bed—a thin, blue sleeveless pullover with matching soft pants. She jumped on top of the quilt and sat cross-legged. She watched him float on mattress waves until they came to a stop. She hoped the motion would jar him into better humor and maybe they could end their night free of clothes, stomach to stomach with his face buried in her neck._

_But she could read the muscles on his back like tea leaves. They told her he was angry that he was born "different" and frightened that he'd turn out to be his father, a man he considered weak and vulnerable and at the beck and call of Gamma and her wealth. _

_Abby slid down on the bed slowly and curled up against him and laid her cheek on the skin of his back. Carter could feel her breathing. Her soft hair spilled over his body like a silk shirt. With the tip of her middle finger, she traced little circles on his smooth skin._

_She whispered, "I like who you are, John Carter." She placed a small kiss on his skin and closed her eyes and rested on a pillow of his warm body._

_She couldn't see, but his eyes were moist. He used the heel of his palm to wipe away tears—and the strength of her words to keep them from coming back._

_She was his light._

_  
FATE HIDES IN the sky behind the stars and arranges the destiny of souls like pieces in a chess game. And sometimes, it kisses you._

THE UNPAVED ROAD to the camps was not long, but it got bumpier and more uncomfortable the farther it got from the hospital. Not only did Abby's body take a beating, but the turbulent ride was making her sick to her stomach.

"When we get there," Albrecht explained, "we head straight for the Red Cross tent where supplies are distributed. We sent word ahead of the vaccine as soon as it arrived, so parents will already be lining up with their children. We'll inoculate as many as we can until the vaccine runs out."

Abby tried to rid herself of the nausea by thinking of the good work they were about to do, but her altruism fought with her concern for Carter and Luka—as well as with the passion-fruit juice and bread she had for breakfast.

"Damon, I've been meaning to thank you."

"For what?"

"For Carter."

"What was I going to do? Leave him there?" His less-than-gracious response surprised Abby, and she dropped the subject.

"Don't mind him," Claire said. "He had an argument with Angelique this morning about how to distribute the vaccine. Angelique is the law around here, and that makes him all pissy."

When they reached the refugee camps, Albrecht opened the back door to help Abby out, and immediately her eyes fell upon the thousands of people crammed side by side performing daily tasks of living in the muddy waters of the river. Abby slid out slowly, her eyes were wide and her mouth formed an "O" with her astonishment. The tragedy of the displaced population of this country unfolded before her. Abby had trouble finding strength in her legs. Albrecht closed the door of the vehicle and came up behind her to steady her. There was a line of people as far as Abby's eyes could see—parents holding children, hoping they would be one of the lucky ones to have their child inoculated against a disease that would no longer keep any Western child out of school.

"Oh my God," Abby whispered. "How did this happen?"

"It's been like this since the mid-nineties," Albrecht explained. "Civil war. There was fighting in Rwanda and Burundi first, and there was a massive inflow of refugees trying to escape the fighting there. That caused a lot of instability here in the DROC."

Abby looked puzzled. "D-R?"

"D-R-O-C. The Democratic Republic of the Congo. When you were a schoolgirl, you may have known this place as Zaire."

"I didn't know much about any place in Africa. I still don't . . . " She looked out onto the people and wished she had.

He directed her a few feet over toward the tent so they could begin setting up.

"Well, eventually the government here was toppled by a rebellion and a new government was set up. But the new government was challenged by a couple of neighboring countries—Rwanda and Uganda—and they fueled a new rebellion."

Under the tent, Albrecht set up a folding table and stool for himself and did the same for Abby, while Claire set up her own.

"But the new government was supported by other countries like Zimbabwe, Angola, Namibia, Chad, and Sudan," Albrecht continued. "They sent troops to defend it."

"Sound like chaos," Abby said.

"Millions of Congolese fled their homes to escape the fighting by all the different groups. More than three million people died here. There is supposed to be a cease-fire in place now—that's why we were able to set up these care stations. But there are still clashes every day."

As Abby helped set up the vaccination station, she tried not to stare at the jagged scar that ran across Albrecht's temple and linked his hairline to the corner of his left eye. She couldn't help but wonder what "clash" he was caught between that caused it, and it made her fearful. She tried even harder not to stare at the people drinking and bathing just yards from her in the contaminated waters. Sadness and nerves caused a lump in Abby's throat that stole her voice, and she could not speak for a long time.

CARTER'S HEAD HURT worse than he could ever remember. The torn skin on his chest burned, and his back ached like it hadn't for a year.

"Luka—" he said, his eyes barely open.

"Dr. Kovac is much better, Dr. Carter," said one of the nurses. "I heard them say he'll be airlifted out of Kisangani later or tomorrow. How do you feel? Do you remember what happened?"

He wasn't sure. He remembered the plane and the bullets and falling through the trees. He remembered being pulled along the ground away from the plane and looking up at Bendu Nyobi's face with a halo of the sun. He remembered the feeling of smoke filling his lungs. But he also remembered Abby's touch and her voice—and decided that his mind's eye saw her in a dream. So when sleep pulled him back again, he didn't resist.

"Dr. Carter. _Dr. Carter!"_

AS DARKNESS APPROACHED, Abby began to worry about being in the camps. While they were fortunate that the vaccine supply held up so long, the line of hopeful parents and children still stretched farther than she could see. But she was anxious to get in the truck and head back to the hospital—partly because she feared what might be hidden in the darkness of the Congolese night, but also because she wondered if anyone thought to feed and change Colette. She wondered if arrangements were made to airlift Luka to Kinshasa for the medical attention he really needed. And she wondered if Carter were feeling better and if he were lucid—and asking for her.

When night fell on the camps, it was black as pitch. Albrecht turned on the headlights of the truck just to dispense the last few vaccines. With the lights came enormous mosquitoes and giant beetles, and Abby shrank in disgust and fear. She sat on the folding stool hugging her knees to her chest.

Albrecht approached her and kneeled down. "Can you handle this a while longer? Claire will be with you."

"If you're going for pizza, skip the pepperoni for me."

He laughed at her, and his eyes smiled.

"Actually, I am going to check on a patient."

"The little boy with polio?"

"Uhhh . . . yes. The patient I told you about."

"Do you need any help?" Abby asked.

Her hair was pulled up into the metal barrette but for one wily strand, which he took and gently tucked behind her ear.

"You have a generous spirit." For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he touched her cheek and walked off.

"Let's wait for him in the truck," Claire suggested.

"Thank God," Abby said as she crawled into the truck behind the driver's wheel and closed the door against the insects. "I'm sorry. I can handle blood and vomit and body fluids of any kind—but I can't handle the bugs." Abby scratched the imaginary itches on her arms. She shuddered and cringed in disgust.

"Boy are _you_ in the wrong place," Claire said, settling into the front passenger seat.

"See, I tried to tell you that in Paris."

Claire laughed and punched the button that opened the glove compartment and reached inside for a pack of cigarettes.

"You mind?" she asked as she removed one from the pack.

"No."

"Want one?"

"No, thanks."

"Health nut, huh?"

"Something like that," Abby answered, rather than explain that sometimes to her a cigarette was like candy and ice cream all rolled into one.

"He likes you," Claire said looking through the windshield out onto the darkness.

"Who?"

"Damon."

Abby thought her question was meant to be provocative. Judging by the far-off look on Claire's face, she thought it safer not to respond.

"Where are you from?" Abby asked.

"Texas. You?"

"I live in Chicago now, but I'm from Minnesota."

"So you've never felt heat like this I bet."

"Only when I turn on the oven in my apartment—which isn't very often."

"Married?" Claire asked.

"Not anymore."

"Is there a boyfriend or 'special someone' or are you going it alone?"

"Ummmm. All of the above," Abby answered.

"I guess the answer to my next question would be: _It's complicated._"

Abby smiled. "How about you, are you married?"

"Been there, done that—it's not for me," Claire said, exhaling smoke through her nose and mouth. "Don't get me wrong. I didn't mind being married. If it weren't for all the affairs, I'd still be."

Abby laughed, "I know what that's like. My Ex went to med school, and I worked to support us. So when he set up his girlfriend in an apartment, guess who was really paying for it?"

"Wow," Claire teased. "You're a good sport."

"That I am," Abby smiled.

The memory made Abby reach for a cigarette from Claire's pack.

"May I?" She didn't light it but rolled it between her fingers.

Claire hunched down in the seat and rested both knees up on the glove box.

"Actually," she said. "In my case, _I_ was the one who had the affairs, not my husband."

Abby didn't know what to say. "Oh, I thought—"

"I know. I'm not proud of what I did. It was the wrong way to handle it. I hurt the poor son-of-a-bitch, and he didn't deserve that."

"Nobody does," Abby lamented.

"We were okay at the beginning. But one day . . . I don't know what happened . . . he just stopped talking to me," Claire recounted and took a deep drag off her cigarette and let the smoke escape with her words. "That was the beginning of the end for us. He grew miserable, depressed. I tried to keep us together for a while. Soon I thought, _'Us? Is there an 'us'_?"

Abby listened.

Claire continued: "I'm not excusing what I did, and I'm not blaming him. But some people just push you out of their lives. They push you and push you to the edge of the cliff. I just decided to jump off before he pushed me over."

Claire sat upright in her seat and took a last deep drag on her cigarette. She rubbed it out in the ashtray as she forced a stream of smoke from her lips.

"Look, I'm sorry," she said to Abby. "I'm sure that's not what happened with you and your husband. He was probably just a creep."

"Yeah, he was just a creep," muttered the woman who could push harder than anyone.

Their talk was interrupted by loud cries. The screams broke through the symphony of crickets and other creatures that Abby did not want to imagine.

"What _is_ that?" Abby asked and tried to look out through the truck windows by surrounding her eyes with her hands.

"Sounds like a woman," Claire deduced.

"A woman in pain," Abby added. "Should we _do_ something?"

"We can't save every one of them."

"You think she was ra—"

"What do they say? 'War is Hell'? It's not always the guns, though . . ."

Abby shivered and made sure her door was locked.

_Knock. Knock.  
_

Abby jumped at the sound behind her head. She whipped around. Albrecht was rapping the back of his knuckle against the glass window of the truck.

"Abigail. Unlock the door."

She did and also the back door, and slid out of the driver's seat and jumped into the rear.

"Let's head back," Albrecht said and pulled quickly away from the camp.

WHEN CARTER FINALLY awoke well into the evening, he saw long blond hair and thick full lips facing him. "I knew you should have driven back from Matenda in my Land Rover," Debbie said to him at his bedside.

He blinked over and over and rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Slowly he came to recognize the hospital in Kisangani. He saw the screen door and placed himself in the isolation ward. He looked over and saw Luka, and it all came back to him. He was on a cargo plane with Luka and—

"It crashed." It was Debbie's voice again. "Your plane was hit. Do you remember that?"

Why did he think it to be Abby in front of him? Thousands and thousands of miles from Chicago and a world away, why would he possibly expect to see her face? Nevertheless, his eyes searched for her. He looked at his hands. He touched his own face. He could _feel_ her.

But rather than calm him, the feeling upset him: She had taken over his thoughts, his dreams, and invaded his hallucinations. Even unconscious, he imagined her near and caring for him—and holding a baby—all the things that seemed so far off for them.

Carter lifted himself up on his elbows and felt sharp pains in his chest and back. He swung his legs off the uncomfortable stretcher, and slipped down to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Debbie asked.

"They need these beds for patients."

"I think you qualify."

"I'm going to sleep in my bungalow, thanks."

"Well, you'll need someone to look after you," Debbie said, moving very close to him. She took his hand in hers.

"I'll be okay, thanks."

Across the room sat Gillian holding Luka's hand.

"How's he doing?" Carter asked.

"Resting comfortably but still not awake. I don't even think he knows about the crash."

"Back in bed, Dr. Carter!" Angelique entered the room iron fist first. "Ladies, let the gentlemen rest please. This ward is now off limits. Shoo! _Shoo!_"

Debbie and Gillian filed out reluctantly.

"Thanks," Carter said. "I don't really feel like seeing anybody right now."

"Get some rest, John." Angelique checked his pulse.

ABBY COULD HEAR Colette wailing as the truck bounced over the muddy approach to the hospital a while later. They came to a stop, and Angelique met them.

"Abby, tend to that baby if she is your charge and then help with night meds in the main ward please."

As Abby slid out of the truck, Angelique touched her shoulder, "Abby, we are going to have to figure out what to do with her. She can't stay here much longer. She's using up all the infant formula, and it took months of red tape just to get what we have."

Before Abby could respond, Angelique walked quickly toward the isolation room, and though she wanted to follow, Abby knew Colette needed her. She ran to the little room, and as she suspected, everyone had been too busy to change her and feed her, and so she was fussing badly.

"Shhhhhh, baby." Abby picked her up to soothe her, but her damp and soiled bottom made the infant fidgety and irritable. With one hand Abby grabbed a clean cloth diaper from the makeshift clothesline that she strung herself to dry the diapers she washed by hand.

Angelique peeked in from the doorway.

"Abby, quiet her down—"

"I'm trying!" Abby snapped, but she regretted it instantly, knowing that Angelique had an uphill battle to keep the hospital running smoothly.

"I'm sorry," Abby said. "It's been a very rough few days."

Angelique nodded.

Abby added, "It would have been nice if one of the nurses changed the poor thing's diaper while I was gone."

"Yes, it would have," Angelique said and turned her head to the rows and rows of beds in the ward filled with sick and injured children and adults.

Abby understood. In the overwhelming task of saving lives, a soiled baby diaper seemed miniscule, and Abby looked away.

She placed the baby down and removed her dirty diaper and saw that irritation combined with the oppressive heat and the hours of fussing forced the stump of Colette's umbilical cord to fall off early. The baby's discomfort moved Abby.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry I wasn't here for you." She filled a small basin with some warm water and began to bathe Colette with a tiny cloth, sniffling up her tears and wiping her moist, tired eyes on the short sleeve of her shirt.

Soon Angelique was next to her. She put her hand on Abby's shoulder and wordlessly handed her a gauze pad with antibacterial cream for the baby's belly button and walked away.

"Thank you." Abby sniffled after her.

Angelique stopped in the doorway, nodded, and turned to walk back into the main ward.

"Angelique?" Abby called.

"Dr. Carter and Dr. Kovac . . . have you seen them yet tonight?"

"Yes, they're doing well. Dr. Carter is conscious; Dr. Kovac is sleeping."

"Did Dr. Carter . . . _say_ anything?"

"No, not really—just that he didn't want visitors." Angelique said, a little puzzled by the question.

Abby could not hide her disappointment. She was not amused by fate, which put them so close yet miles apart. She was angry with herself for caring, and angry at him for not. And worse, she didn't know how he was feeling and thus couldn't tell if her anger was justified. It just seemed as if every step she'd taken to repair things was rejected—a far cry from when even the littlest steps meant so much.

_WHEN ERIC VISITED with his new girlfriend Jody, Abby's senses told her she was in the presence of mania. She agreed to let them stay at her apartment and gave Eric the key from her locker to use while she was at work. Once there, she instructed him where to find her spare key—in the little china bowl atop her tall dresser. _

_That evening she and Carter met Eric and Jody at the Navy Pier for an evening of burgers and country line dancing. Though she was worried about Eric, she allowed herself to enjoy the company of her brother, his young-but-pleasant new girlfriend, and of course Carter. As fate would have it, that night became one of their most treasured memories. It wasn't giggling with her brother or recounting her Catholic school mischief or dancing in the crisp November air that made it special, it was what happened after._

_Abby made provisions for Eric and Jody to stay over. Unfortunately, her one-bedroom apartment only allowed for Jody on the couch, Eric on the floor. However, Eric's new wanderlust made him impatient, and at the last minute he insisted they move on that night. He gave his sister a bear hug at the Navy Pier, shook Carter's hand twice, grabbed Jody, and practically ran to the rental car that would take them to the private airfield at Midway Airport where they'd continue on to Ohio in his Cessna. He returned Abby's spare key, and she placed it in the pocket of her jeans._

_She drove with Carter in his Jeep back to her apartment and absentmindedly tapped her finger on his leg as she contemplated Eric. In her apartment, he checked his messages while she kicked off her shoes in the bedroom. He came in behind her, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her onto the bed with him. They fell to the mattress with a thud and bounced a few seconds more, and they giggled so loudly she worried her neighbors would hear._

"_What do you think you're doing?" she teased._

"_Tell me more about that guy Rafe," he said and positioned himself over her and kissed her neck. _

"_Haven't you heard enough about my sordid past tonight?"_

"_Okay, then tell me about the little plaid jumpers—"_

"_Cut it out," she pretended to push him off her._

_She laughed but soon he captured her eyes and leaned down to give her a deep, slow kiss spurred on by Jody's observation that Abby really loved him. They were "intimate," she said, "without needing to show off."_

_As he kissed her, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him close and was greeted by something moving rapidly against her stomach._

_She pulled her lips away._

"_That better be your pager."_

"_Don't worry. It is."_

_He laughed and topped off their kiss with a peck on her forehead. He rolled off her, sat on the bed, and removed the vibrating gadget from his belt. _

"_Luka." He surmised from looking at the tiny screen. _

_He reached for the telephone on her nightstand and dialed. _

"_Hey, it's Carter . . . Yeah, why? . . . Tonight? . . . Six hours? I'll give you four—I gotta be back there in the morning myself . . . See you soon."_

_He sighed loudly and hung up. "I'm going in for four hours—Pratt's off, and Luka's getting slammed."_

"_Now?"_

"_Yeah." He leaned down to kiss her and then stood to leave. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."_

"_Tomorrow?"_

"_Yeah. You're in tomorrow, right?"_

"_No—I mean, yes. I'm on at seven. But it's just . . . I don't know . . . I thought we'd . . ."_

"_What?"_

_Abby couldn't say that she wanted to sleep next to him tonight. She couldn't express how worried she was about Eric and that she needed his company._

_Instead, she just said, "Nothing. It's okay, go ahead."_

_He knew better by now. He sat on the bed again and wove his fingers through hers. "What is it?"_

"_Why don't you come back after your shift?" she said. It was as close as she could come to explaining her feelings._

"_It'll be 3-3:30 in the morning before I get back. I don't want you to get out of bed to let me in. You have an early shift. I'll just see you tomorrow."_

_He kissed her head, gathered his belongings, and walked to the door._

"_Hey." Suddenly she was right behind him. "You could let yourself in with this."_

_She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the duplicate key she had loaned to Eric._

_Carter took it from her hand and stared in her eyes._

"_You can hold onto it—if you want," Abby offered while staring down at her own bare feet._

_She had succeeded in making him forget to breathe. Carter tilted her face up to his. "Yeah, I want."_

_She smiled and found the courage to add, "And I guess if you want to bring something over at some point . . ."_

"_Bring something over?"_

"_Yeah, next time you come over, if you want to bring something—"_

"_Something like what? Like . . . a casserole?" he teased.  
_

"_Something like clothes and . . . you know . . . stuff."_

_He was enjoying her discomfort but decided to spare her anymore. He leaned down and kissed her softly._

"_I'll see you in a little while," he said and left._

"_Wake me anyway," she said to him when he was already out in the hall._

_Down in his car, he held Abby's key in his hand and stared at it like it was a Rolex watch—only worth a lot more._

_During the four hours of his shift, Carter reached into his pocket and touched the key . . . and sutured a girl and touched the key . . . and bandaged a wrist and touched the key._

_For Carter, having Abby's key meant she was as committed to their relationship as he was. As long as he had her key—it would stick._

_In the wee hours of the morning, after three MVAs, a gunshot to the spleen, a kidney stone, and eleven flu victims, Carter slipped the key in Abby's door and entered her dark apartment. He made his way to the bedroom and found her asleep completely surrounded by her white down comforter like she was submerged in a cloud. He kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt and sweater down to his naked skin. He walked around to the far side of the bed and gently pulled the covers from her body—not an inch of her was covered by cloth. She breathed slowly, her body curved in a sleepy "C." He climbed in next to her and kissed her shoulder. _

"_Abby," he whispered. "Abby, wake up."_

_In her sleep, she sighed and rolled farther away from him onto her stomach. _

_He moved closer, slid her hair away from the back of her neck, and placed small kisses there._

"_Open your eyes . . . " he said softly near her ear and then kissed a trail down her spine to the small of her back where it tickled._

_She smiled through closed eyes. He moved back up and kissed her earlobe._

"_You're home," she said in a breathy whisper, burrowing her face deeper into her pillow._

_Her words overwhelmed him._

_He swallowed hard and whispered, "Yes, I'm home." He reached over to find her lips and kissed them in the dark. He fell asleep next to her with his right hand resting on the curve of her waist._

_In his left, he tightly clutched her key._

"MEDS IN THE main ward when you're through with the baby, Abby."

"I'll be there," she said softly as she cupped her hand in the basin and brought the water up to the baby's chest over and over again.

Colette cooed and looked up into Abby's eyes.

"All right, all right, we'll go see him," Abby said to the baby. "Just to check the sutures. But we're not speaking to him. Deal?"

The baby pounded her little fists into the water, splashing Abby and making her laugh out loud.

Abby lifted her from the bath. She dried her well, applied the antibiotic Angelique gave her, and dressed the baby in a clean diaper and undershirt. She prepared a bottle and fed her while seated in the broken wheelchair. Then they stepped out into the warm night and strolled in the direction of the isolation ward where Carter and Luka lay.

ON THE RICKETY wooden steps that led to the screen door of the ward sat two women sharing a cigarette.

"Hi, I'm Gillian," said the thin brunette with a long, dark ponytail.

"Debbie," announced the blue-eyed muscular blond.

"Hi, I'm Abby," she said, shooing a large mosquito that flew around her head.

The women laughed, which embarrassed Abby a bit.

"You're new," Gillian observed.

"I just got here a few days ago."

"Yours?" Debbie asked of the baby in Abby's arms.

"By default. I delivered her the day I got here. Her mother didn't survive."

"I heard about that," Gillian said. "How is she doing?"

"She's fine considering the rough start she's had."

Abby moved toward the steps, hoping the women would move aside.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. Excuse me."

"You can't go inside," Debbie said.

"What?" Abby said, retreating.

Gillian took a long drag on her cigarette before she explained. "Angelique's orders—no visitors until morning."

"Do you know them?" Debbie wondered.

"I'm from Chi—"

"Abby!" Angelique called from the door to the main ward. She was faintly visible behind the tattered mesh of the screen.

"I need you for final rounds. For goodness' sake, put that baby down and come help."

Abby dared not cross Angelique—plus she saved Abby from having to explain herself to these two women, who made her feel oddly uncomfortable. Abby excused herself and entered the hospital through the main ward. She set Colette down in the nursery and helped Angelique give out nighttime medications. She checked I.V.s on all the patients and sat for a while holding a damp cloth to the forehead of a feverish young girl.

When all the patients were settled for the night, Abby stood over a basin of hot water and washed diapers for the next day. When she draped the last of them over the makeshift clothesline, she picked up Colette once again and stepped outside into the steamy night air.

"What are you going to do with her?" It was Albrecht's voice, and it came from behind her.

"I don't know," she said as the baby looped her fingers around Abby's thumb.

"We'll probably have to turn her over to the authorities," he said and moved over to her.

"No!" Abby raised her voice but then caught herself. "I mean, isn't there something else? Who's in authority here anyway?"

"Perhaps an international adoption agency can place her."

"What if . . . what if I wanted to bring her back to the U.S. with me?" Abby couldn't believe the words were coming out of her mouth.

"I don't think they'll just let you leave with a baby."

"What about all those strings you pulled to get me here?" Abby flashed a girlish smile, and Albrecht couldn't help but respond.

"Abigail, are you suggesting I use my contacts to help you smuggle a baby out of the Congo?"

He was teasing her, and Abby's smile disappeared.

"I just want to give her a chance." She lifted Colette upright against her shoulder and rubbed her back. The little girl set her cheek down against Abby's skin.

"I'm sorry—" He reached for Abby's face, but she pulled away.

"I better put her down for the night," she said.

Abby climbed the stairs of the hospital once again and headed toward the nursery. Before she put Colette in the little high bed, she nuzzled her nose next to the baby's soft cheeks and breathed in the essence of her baby smell. She placed her on the mattress and leaned down to kiss her forehead, her chest, and then her belly. She picked up Colette's tiny feet, one in each hand, and placed them against her lips.

"Good night, baby. See you in the morning."

Abby left and headed for bed. As she walked through the quiet main ward, her eyes fell upon the closed door of the isolation room.

On the other side of the door, Carter lay wide awake. He clutched his painful back and counted like sheep all the reasons he loved her—and cursed himself for never running out of them.

Abby passed by the room, turned her head away, and headed back to her bungalow.

On this night, as fate would have it, just a few feet apart lay a man who needed comfort, a baby who needed a mother, and the woman who loved them both.

_FATE HIDES IN the sky behind the stars and arranges the destiny of souls like pieces in a chess game. And sometimes, it laughs at you._

_NEXT—_

_Chapter 6: 'X' Marks the Spot_

_Life changes, and there's no turning back . . ._


	6. X Marks the Spot

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

_**CHAPTER SIX: 'X' Marks the Spot **_

**_Rating_: PG-13 (or the new equivalent) with very strong cautioning for romantic situations and violence.**

**_Summary_: The re-education of Carter and Abby is under way—now it's time for a pop quiz. Their devotion gets tested—and life sends them an unexpected twist.**

**_Disclaimer_: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks.**

**_Author's Note_: Lost for weeks now, Carter's life lessons may finally be taking root, but Abby can't imagine what she'll be facing. Have trust. **

**Hearing from you makes every single word worthwhile. Thank you for taking the time.**

**

* * *

**

CARTER SLID OFF the thin, uncomfortable mattress he lay on all day in the isolation ward of the hospital in Kisangani. The line of a dozen stitches across his chest stung, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his back that made him grimace. With one hand he balanced himself against the bed; with the other he rubbed at the spot that plagued him for so long. Just a few feet away lay Luka. Carter straightened up and slowly shuffled over to his bed.

"He's just sleeping," said Angelique from the doorway.

He reassured himself by checking Luka's pulse.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Carter asked her.

"Don't _you_?" she replied.

"Has he woken up at all?"

"Here and there." Angelique put a stethoscope to her ear and checked Luka's breathing. With her free hand, she gently shooed Carter back.

"He's doing much better now," Angelique assured him. "We've arranged to have him airlifted to Kinshasa in the morning."

"Sounds good. How's Mr. Nyobi?"

"Seven stitches to the forehead, but he's fine. We'll let him rest in the trauma room tonight."

"I take it things are quiet?"

"The usual assortment—several more for the AIDS clinic, bullet to the neck, and another rape victim earlier."

Angelique briskly rubbed the metal of her stethoscope against her scrubs and then placed it against Carter's naked chest, just a few inches away from his bandaged suture line.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he protested and nudged her scope from his skin. "If my cabin is still free, I'd like to go back to my room. You could use this bed for someone else. No offense, but the accommodations here are killing my back."

"It's exactly as you left it a week or so ago—your duffle bag is on the bed. One of the staff recovered it at the crash site," Angelique informed him. "We haven't had a lot of replacements since you left us. We didn't expect you back so soon, but we're happy to have you. If you're feeling better, we'll expect you on duty in the morning."

"Well, I'm not really working with the Alliance right now. I just came to see that Luka gets home."

"We could sure use the help. We got one new doctor over the last week and a couple of nurses. That's about it."

Carter silently removed the linens from the stretcher he slept on all day, while Angelique replenished supplies in the room. The motion of his arms stretched his chest wound, and it stung. He put his hand to it, and he could see Abby's face.

"_You have some really big problems!"_ she yelled to him during what was supposed to be the conversation where they kissed and made up. Earlier that morning, she had demanded her key back as punishment for running off to Kisangani the first time. The clinking noise his key made as he dropped it into the china bowl on top of her chest of drawers grated on his heart like fingernails on a blackboard. Certainly she was worried about his safety—enough to come all the way to Paris to discourage him from continuing on. Of course, he was missing her now—more each day. He could feel it. But being on her mind was one thing—being in her heart was another.

"Angelique, maybe I'll help out for a few days . . . if you're sure you can get Kovac out of here safely."

"Glad to have you," Angelique responded without looking up from the I.V. stand she was fixing.

ABBY WALKED ALL the way down to her home of late—bungalow no. 5, almost at the end of the row. There, Albrecht waited on her small wooden steps with the perfect remedy for a difficult day—food for her stomach, which she had forgotten to feed since early that morning.

"What is it?" she asked as she sat on a step next to him.

He handed her a small ceramic bowl. "_Mwamba_," he said. "It's stew. This one's chicken, but once I had it with smoked monkey."

"Huh?" Abby gasped and stared into her bowl.

Albrecht laughed. "Just chicken, I promise."

She smiled skeptically.

"You have to try it," Albrecht insisted. "I get very cranky if someone turns down my hospitality."

"How am I supposed to eat this?"

"You're supposed to mix some stew with some rice and form a ball that you eat with your fingers—"

Abby looked at her unwashed hand and made a face.

"—that's why I brought you this from the cafeteria," he said and produced a plastic spoon from his pocket. From his other pocket he pulled a small bottle of water.

"Thanks," Abby said, and tentatively tried a bit of the stew on the tip of her spoon. "Hey, it's not bad."

"I told you. Trust me, Abigail."

Albrecht grabbed a bottle of water that he placed on the step next to him. He unscrewed the cap and spilled a bit onto the ground before sipping some himself.

"It's customary to pour a small amount of liquid on the ground before drinking as a libation for thirsty ancestors," he explained.

"For a boy from Liechtenstein, you sure know a lot about the Congo."

"As long as I'm here, I like to get close to the people."

CARTER HEADED OUTSIDE and made his way toward bungalow no. 2, which was just a few steps from the hospital building. The pain in his back and chest began to loosen up as he walked, and with each step he grew a little stronger.

Angelique was right—his cabin was exactly as he left it. Even the used bed linens were still folded at the edge of the mattress. He reached into the wicker chest of drawers to retrieve new sheets but stopped when he caught the image of his bandaged chest in the foggy mirror that hung above. He stripped off the tape and gauze and saw the perfect row of neat stitches right over his heart. He stared at them for several minutes and touched the skin around them and reminded himself to ask Angelique whose handiwork he wore.

Carter removed his pants and underwear and showered as best he could in the tiny bathroom. He tried hard to keep the sutures dry. It wasn't very difficult since his shower was barely more than a trickle of water from an overhead pipe.

"HOW ARE CARTER and Kovac?" Albrecht asked Abby.

"I hear they're better, but I can't get in to see them until morning. Angelique's orders."

"She rules with an iron fist."

"Well, I have to admire her," Abby said sincerely. "I've only been here a few days, and I can barely handle it. I don't know how she does it—any of you."

"We care."

"It's more than that. I work with a lot of caring people," Abby explained. "It's more than caring. It's . . . courage. I've never had too much of that."

"I think you do. I think you are much stronger than you give yourself credit for," Albrecht observed.

He lit a short, unfiltered cigarette and inhaled. He removed it from his mouth and stared at the lit end as he blew away the smoke. "Why do you always sell yourself short?" he asked.

"Selling myself short is something I'm really good at."

He was enchanted by her humor and brushed a piece of hair from her eyes.

THE KNOCK ON Carter's door startled him from the sleep he was flirting with and caused him to wince as he jumped up to answer it.

"Angelique let you come back to your cabin after all?" Debbie asked from the other side of the door.

"Yeah."

"Can I come in?"

"Uhhhh . . ."

And before he knew it, she was in the door.

"Look," she said. "I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry about what you've been through—almost losing Dr. Kovac and then the crash."

She seemed sincere, and Carter appreciated the sentiment.

"Thanks."

"How do you feel?" Debbie asked.

"My back hurts a little, but I'll be fine." He sat down on the edge of the bed, hoping not to grimace too much.

"You could have cracked a rib or nicked your spine—"

"No, it's an old injury that flares up."

"Let me see."

"No, it's okay."

"Okay, nothing. You're in pain. Turn around."

"What?"

"I'm not kidding. Turn around and lie on your stomach," Debbie ordered.

Carter obeyed, and Debbie put one knee on either side of him and sat down on his rear end. Before he could object, her hands were skillfully kneading the spot that hurt the most. Quickly, the pressure of the last few days began to wane, and he was grateful.

"THE MOONLIGHT . . . IT'S so bright. I can hardly believe it's night," Abby observed from the steps of her bungalow.

"Moonlight suits you," Albrecht said gazing at the top of her head where it cast a halo around her.

He moved closer on the step and his fingers caressed her hand. It surprised her that she did not stop him from touching her. Her nerves made her change the subject.

"So, your patient—the boy in the camps—how's he doing?"

Albrecht's eyes grew dark, and he looked upset.

"Things are not well in the camps."

She regretted asking.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Her apology brought him out of his mood. "You're sweet to be concerned, but I'm fine." And he wriggled even closer, tossed some blond hair out his face, and kissed her temple. "You're very sweet."

CARTER COULD HAVE gone on for hours with Debbie massaging his painful back. Nevertheless, several minutes into the pleasure he said, "Thanks, but you must be tired. It's late."

"I am a little tired," she said and climbed off him and lay on the bed next to him.

"It must be difficult to be so far away from home," he said. Her pretty blond hair fell loosely across the pillow.

"I'm sort of a wanderer," she replied.

"Hard to make friends that way?"

"Nope," she replied. "Just hard to keep them."

"Lonely life."

"Maybe _you _could stick around for awhile," she said and slid her body closer to his. Carter could feel the heat coming from her skin.

_Clink! _The harsh sound of his key as it dropped into the bowl in Abby's room signaled permission.

He looked at Debbie and said, "Maybe I can."

And she slid over more and kissed him . . .

_Clink!_

. . . and Carter kissed her back. Warm from his touch, Debbie she reached down with crossed arms and lifted her T-shirt over her head and reached behind and freed her breasts from her pink cotton bra.

_Clink!_

And Carter touched them and began to comfort himself in the warmth of her unequivocal attention and found himself caught up in anticipation, his second-favorite part of the act.

_  
BY LATE AFTERNOON, Carter would be on a plane to Belize to meet his diving buddies. Abby took a split shift to see him off, knowing full well his flight did not leave for hours, which would give them plenty of time to memorize every inch of each others' bodies. He didn't know that she was uncomfortable with his leaving, and the only way she could express it was to remind him of what he was leaving behind._

_She was so matter-of-fact as they walked out of the ER together, so composed. The anticipation of what she had planned was too exciting for him, and his face was flushed as he said his good-byes. The ER staff wished them a good vacation, and Abby had to clarify that she was just making sure Carter got off all right and that she would return later that day. They walked out casually, smiling all the way, but inside his heart was pounding. They got in his Jeep, and as soon as the doors slammed, he put his right arm around her shoulders and with his left he unzipped her winter jacket and slipped his hand up underneath her black turtleneck. She gasped at the feeling of his icy fingers._

_"Hold on," she laughed. "You're cold."_

_He ignored her complaints and slid his hand up along her stomach._

_"I'm warming up," he explained._

_"Can't we get to my apartment first?" she managed to say as he devoured her mouth._

_"This split shift was a very good idea," he said as he came up for air and then dove onto her lips again._

_She pulled away. "I thought you'd think so," she said and then reached for his lips with a soft open mouth. _

_Her kiss left him breathless with excitement._

_"Oh, I do . . ."_

_His mouth was on hers again, and his hand found the lace of her bra._

_" . . . I definitely do."_

_She reached down and pulled his arm out from under her shirt. "Would you do something for me?" she said with her lips still attached to his. _

_"Oh, I plan to," he assured her and moved his hand to her thigh instead. He kissed his way from her mouth to her neck and lost himself in the perfume of her hair. His soft kisses forced her lids closed—but she had other ideas._

_"Wait," Abby giggled and opened her eyes. She pushed him back toward the driver's seat. "Can you stop at the drive-through window and get me a burger and a shake?"_

_He was dumbfounded._

_"A burger?"_

_"Uh huh," she nodded, "and a shake."_

_"That's what you want?"_

_"I'm hungry," she said with wide, innocent eyes._

_"You're thinking about food?"_

_"I didn't have any breakfast."_

_Carter repositioned himself in the driver's seat and sighed loudly, shaking his head from side to side. He put the car in gear and sped off. He pretended to be insulted, but in truth, she amused him. She kept him off balance. She dazzled him—and he could hardly suppress a smile. But he played along and forced a frown._

_"What?" she could be heard saying as the Jeep sped away. "Whaaaaaaat?"_

_Her casual attitude teased him. The delays excited him. The anticipation drove him crazy._

_She liked it that way._

HE WANTED HER. Abby. It was Abby that Carter wanted with him, and the touch of another woman only made him see it. Clarity came rushing over him. Every foggy moment of the last few months was pulled into focus like the lens of a camera. All of Bendu Nyobi's words made sense to him. He breathed heavily and felt panic.

_What did I do?_

Carter pictured himself yelling at Abby in the Suture Room after Gamma's funeral. _"Can you leave me alone?"_ he said to her. There was so much pain in her round eyes when she slinked out.

_What have I done?_

He avoided her for a week. He convinced himself that his anger over his grandmother's death was because of her and that his disillusionment with the world was because of his job. So he secretly made plans to leave and join Luka in the Congo.

_What was I thinking?_

He ran into her in the ambulance bay, and though he was happy to see her face, he danced around her and kept a safe distance, dodging her gaze as hard as she struggled to meet his. She knew he planned to go, and he confirmed it with guilt. Instead of explaining, he made it seem as if he were glad to be going any place where she wasn't.

She hurt him. He hurt her. She punished him. He punished her. What kind of dance was this?

Carter pulled himself away from Debbie, threw his legs over the side of the bed, dropped his face into his hands.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He turned to look at her. "I'm sorry. I have a girlfriend in the States, and I . . . we're having some problems, but . . . How about I just see you in the morning, okay?"

"You're a million miles from your girlfriend, Carter." Debbie jumped out of the bed. She grabbed her T-shirt, threw it over her head, and stuffed her arms angrily through the holes. "Maybe you should have thought about her before you came to the Congo." She swung open his door hard and left.

He sat at the edge of the bed breathing heavily as if he had run a marathon. He'd been running, all right—running away from everything he couldn't control and everything that controlled him. Like his mother and his father, he ran from pain and fear. He learned so well.

Carter cursed his missing cell phone. He would wait until morning and call Abby from the hospital to say he was sorry and tell her he was coming home in a few days. And if she were angry and shouted at him, he'd understand. As long as he could hear her voice it would be worth it. In the meantime, sleep overpowered him. He closed his eyes and spoke to her, aiming his words 7000 miles to the east. _Abby, I'm thinking about you._

TWENTY YARDS AWAY in the other direction Albrecht's lips brushed against Abby's cheek.

"Thanks for dinner," she said.

His hand slipped around her waist, as they sat together on the steps.

"If we were in Vaduz, I would take you to Torkel for dinner—marvelous fish. And if we were in Paris—"

"Paris?"

"My family spent a month every spring in Paris," he explained. "If we were in Paris we could have—"

"—pizza."

"Well, I'm we sure we could get pizza in Paris, but wouldn't you prefer—"

"—No, I mean I could go for pizza right now."

He laughed at her. "You're charming."

Abby wasn't kidding. The chicken _mwamba_ did nothing to cure her hunger.

Albrecht laughed and moved even closer to her. He slid his hand from her waist up and down her side. Abby could think of nothing else other than no man but Carter had touched her body for the past two years.

_"SMALLPOX" AND "QUARANTINE" are frightening words to a doctor and a nurse. But for a man and a woman just discovering love, they were an excuse for long-awaited intimacy. On the first day of the panic, just after treating children suspected of the disease, Carter kissed Abby to reassure her the worst was over. Well . . . that was the excuse he chose. "Tell me we're going to be okay," she had pleaded. In truth, he couldn't resist kissing those lips for a moment longer. He would have kissed her then had she asked for a weather report. "Tell me it's not going to rain," and he still would have been all over her. _

_They locked down the hospital for two full weeks, sequestering everyone suspected of exposure—Carter, Abby, Jing-Mei Chen, Greg Pratt, and one patient. On the first night, Carter and Abby claimed Trauma 2 and tenuously put two beds side by side—his lower to the floor, hers slightly elevated to assure themselves they were not sleeping together. Her body in the room with him kept him awake, and he occupied himself by playing word games with "monkey pox," the actual disease responsible for their sleeping arrangements, they were ultimately told. He'd have to thank those monkeys one day._

_There was no room in Abby's head for sleep as she replayed their kiss over and over, but soon her itchy back made her a little fearful of exposure. He checked her skin for a rash. Her low-slung scrub pants and her hiked-up shirt made the curve of her waist and hips obvious to him. After spotting the tattoo on her—uhhh "back," as she insisted it was—he planted two or three kisses on her neck and then reached over to kiss her mouth. She rolled over onto her back and slipped her arms around his shoulders to let him know she wouldn't mind some more. He reached down to his bed, raised the height even with hers, and locked the wheels. He made himself comfortable next to her, and they kissed some more, until he pulled away from her lips and held her face in his hand. He stared in her eyes—partly to share his feelings with her, partly to assure himself that it was really Abby he was kissing after all this time. _

_Abby looked back at him and saw something she'd never seen in the eyes of a man she kissed. It made her lift her lips up to his again. And in a move only a teenage boy would envy, Carter slipped his open hand down from her cheek until it rested on her neck . . . and then her shoulder . . . and then her breast. His eyes met hers in that special moment from which there is no going back—they were no longer just friends, their relationship had just changed. And he kissed her again—only longer. And he touched her some more—only in places where a friend's hand would be forbidden._

_But soon they realized that to be responsible, they needed to pull themselves apart—though it almost hurt. They looked at each other disappointed but knowing it was the right thing to do. He retreated to the narrow bed next to hers, and they fell asleep—well, they closed their eyes at least. And for six more nights after that, their evenings began and ended the same way._

_"So what's up with you and Pratt?" Abby asked late on the morning of their eighth day of quarantine when she and fellow prisoner Chen were wasting time in the lounge. Chen sat at the table and painted her toenails a deep shade of red, while Abby sat across from her. Her knees were propped up against the table, and her nose was in a novel she had been storing in her locker along with promises that she'd read it "one day."_

_"Nothing's up," Chen answered._

_"He's flirting with you . . ."_

_"That's his style. But what about you and Carter, huh?"_

_Abby turned the page and ignored the question, which Chen chose to decipher her own way._

_"Oh my God, are you guys—? Have you—?"_

_Abby looked up. "No!" She shouted, but her eyes were smiling._

_"Oh, really?"_

_"Well, we almost did."_

_"But . . .?"_

_Abby went back to reading._

_"Abby! Come on!" Chen said, frustrated by Abby's vagueness._

_"We didn't come prepared," she said still with her nose in her book. "He doesn't have . . . anything. Neither do I."_

_"Anything?"_

_Abby continued staring at the page._

_"Abby, are you trying to say that you need condoms? That's the only thing stopping you guys?"_

_Chen stood and walked on her heels over to her locker, careful not to ruin her pedicure in progress. She reached up to the top metal shelf and unfolded a long chain of foil-wrapped condoms attached end to end._

_Abby looked at them wide-eyed._

_"We're here another week, Abby. Someone ought to get something out of it."_

_Abby tried not to be judgmental at that moment. Why would Chen need a stockpile of condoms in the ER? Abby wondered. It was more than she wanted to know about Chen._

_"Come on," Chen coaxed._

_Abby closed her book and got up from the table. "Okay, just one."_

_Chen ripped one from the strip and laughed as an embarrassed Abby grabbed it from her hand without looking and mumbled something about getting a soda. Abby swung open the lounge door and left. But just as it began to close, she pushed through it again._

_"Okay, maybe two," she mumbled quickly, grabbed another, and flounced out the door to the sound of Chen cackling._

_That night, as several nights before, Carter and Abby pushed two narrow beds together and lay on their sides, their heads propped up on bent elbows, and they talked. They complained about their mothers, told stories about their youth, and whined about the ER. Inevitably, the closeness overtook them as it had on every other night since they'd been locked in the ER. Abby began to animate her stories with a touch of his arm, and Carter's eyes drifted to other parts of her body. Finally, he leaned over to kiss her, and she not only let him but encouraged him by touching his hair and resting her hand on his chest. _

_On this night, Abby opened her eyes as they kissed and watched him as she ran her finger down his chest over his stomach and down toward his pants._

_He grabbed her hand firmly and pulled it away. "I don't think you want to do that." He was smiling but serious._

_"Why?" she teased._

_"Because you're making it difficult for me—"_

_And with that she kissed him and pressed one of Chen's condoms into his hand without looking at him. He pulled away and looked at his hand and then at her. At first she was unable to meet his eyes, but he nudged her face toward him with his fingertips. She looked at him with pouty lips, which soon crept into a smile. He reached down and pulled his own shirt over his head. He put his arms around her and pulled her close and did what he had dreamed of doing for two years._

_For Carter, physical intimacy with a woman was not an unusual thing—and therefore not special. After all, it was only a mystery for 10 short years of his life—in the eleventh, he was introduced to sex by a 25-year-old family employee—a maid. For Carter, losing his virginity ranked up there with making the starting rotation of his Little League team. He'd much rather have spent that Saturday afternoon climbing the Big Tree with his brother Bobby, who died just two months before, and whose loss made him brotherless and essentially motherless. Later, when his college fraternity brothers competed over who was the first to "do it," Carter always won, as he did that snowy morning when he and his co-workers were sentenced to a seminar as punishment for some ER antics. But when Luka shared that his first time was on his wedding night with his young wife whom he loved, Carter felt nothing but envy. _

_As he matured, Carter learned to enjoy the pleasure of the act, and though he'd indulged in sex with many smart and attractive women, he'd never made love to any one of them—until this night. _

_He kissed Abby softly for a long while. With each kiss, the world grew smaller and smaller until all that was left was her body and his, their lips, and a few softly uttered words. He touched her over her clothes until it wasn't enough. And when he slipped his hand under her shirt, he watched carefully for any signs she had changed her mind. _

_She did, in fact, push him away—but just long enough for her to sit up and remove all the barriers between her bare skin and his. He swiftly dropped the rest of his clothes to the floor, but her scrubs wouldn't budge easily from her legs, and she rode a bicycle in the air to kick them off. They laughed. They kissed. He felt powerful. She felt beautiful. _

_"You were a little loud," she remarked to him the next day. She wasn't loud though. In fact, she was silent but for a few moans and a whimper or two. "Do you like that?" he asked, touching her and kissing her in ways he hoped would please her. And in a breathy whisper she'd answer "yes" and move her lips to his mouth to seal her approval. _

_At first, Abby couldn't explain why being with Carter felt so different for her. She didn't understand it was because she had fallen in love and this was the way it was supposed to be—not frightening, not lonely, not angry, and definitely not to ensure his interest in her. Those were mistakes girls make—mistakes she would never make if she had to do it over again. She wished she could erase that time when she was just 16—and every time after until this one._

_When Abby had it all figured out, she realized magazines and movies had it all wrong. It wasn't the sensation of his body that made her feel so warm—it was the feeling that she belonged somewhere and to someone and that her body had a place for him. Just for him. Because she knew from that moment on her heart would not let her body share this with anyone other than a person who loved her and respected her. A friend._

_Carter._

ABBY FELT ALBRECHT'S hand cup her cheek and bring her face toward his. He leaned over and moved his lips toward hers. Just before they met, Abby reached up and traced the deep, jagged scar that crossed his temple from his hairline to the corner of his left eye.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

He pulled away from her, resigned that she was dodging his advances. "Not anymore."

"What happened—if you don't mind the question?"

"Nothing interesting really—Kisangani is a dangerous place. My face got in the way."

"Some kind of fighting?"

"You can say that," he responded and kissed away the crease between her eyebrows where her concern showed. And when she let him, he leaned over once more to place his mouth on hers. But this time, Abby stood up to escape his reach, and he got the message.

"Is this about Carter—if you don't mind the question?" he half-teased from his seated spot on the steps.

Abby looked over toward the hospital where Carter lay. She nodded and gave a tiny smile. "Yeah, it is."

Albrecht pursed his lips and looked away.

"Good night, Damon," Abby said and headed up the remaining step past Albrecht toward her door.

Albrecht stood and stepped down to the mud. He reached into his chest pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it.

"Abigail," he said as he took the first drag.

She turned around as he emptied his lungs of the smoke.

"I hope Carter knows what a lucky man he is."

Abby didn't answer. She opened her door, stepped behind it, and leaned back on it until it closed. She wasn't lucky for any man, she concluded—certainly not for Carter.

Abby removed her clothes and released the trickle of water from the overhead pipe and stood over the drain hole in the floor. And as she showered she heard sounds and laughed at herself for imagining it was his voice. Nevertheless, she quickly rinsed off the soap and stepped out of the bathroom and into the empty silence of the small bedroom.

She patted herself dry with a small, rather scratchy towel and took the T-shirt she borrowed from him that night in Paris off the makeshift clothesline. Abby pulled it slowly over her head to enjoy the brief moment when she was completely enveloped by his shirt. Then she popped her head out, stretched one arm through the sleeve and then the other, and used both hands to pull her hair out of the neck and let it fall about her shoulders. She turned out the light beneath the butterfly lampshade and crawled onto the bed. With her head on the pillow, she clutched two fistfuls of his too-big shirt and pulled them tightly around her. It was a long, eventful day, and Abby fell asleep relieved that Carter was safe but also confused, hurt and—as much as she hated to admit it—still in love. _Why aren't you asking for me? Why . . ._

AT DAWN THE sound of crickets was replaced a long, clear, sharp whistle—a whistle that ended in an explosion that shook Carter awake. It was followed by the _tata-tat-tat_ of an automatic rifle. When he heard the next whistle, he rolled off his bed and onto the floor and covered his head with his hands just as the subsequent explosion made his whole bungalow quake. The drawers flew from the wicker chest, and the smell of gunpowder permeated the early morning air.

Soon, the area around the hospital was filled with rockets and grenades, bullets and fire, smoke and screams, cries and chaos. Carter rose to his feet, clutching the stinging cut on his chest. He opened his door, and at the first quiet moment, he ran the few yards toward the relative cover of the hospital. Inside, the whimpering of frightened patients could be heard over the pinging of bullets as they ricocheted off the cinderblock walls.

"Get these patients under the beds!" The hoarse yell came from Luka, as he sprang into action, the sounds of war triggering dormant instincts. One by one, he and Angelique and other workers in the hospital struggled to disentangle the wounded and injured from I.V.s and move them underneath their simple aluminum frame beds.

In her bungalow, Abby smelled the smoke even before her eyes opened. It burned her nose. When she lifted her head from the pillow, it was hard to see and the sound of gunfire tore at her eardrums. She jumped out of the bed and opened her door an inch or two and heard more clearly the distinct sound of gunfire. She saw two men in the distance in beige T-shirts and fatigues shooting toward the jungle. She closed the door and stepped back from it, and ordered her mind to slow down and think.

The smoke was burning her throat, and she dropped to the floor at the sound of more rifle shots. She stayed huddled there, frightened and unable to slow down her breathing. Her eyes began to burn and water. Just behind her bungalow, a loud whistle ended in a big explosion that jerked her head into the wicker chest.

"Ouch!"

Abby knew she needed to make her way inside the cinderblock walls of the hospital where she'd also be near Carter and Luka and . . . _Colette!_ Abby remembered the baby was alone in the storage room. She was most likely frightened by the loud noise, and her immature lungs would have trouble with the smoke-laden air. Abby pulled her jeans on underneath Carter's white T-shirt and slipped into her shoes. She opened the door slightly and watched for what seemed like an eternity. When the soldiers seemed more preoccupied with whatever—or whoever—was in the jungle, she ran to the hospital and up the wooden steps and bolted for the storage room. Just as she got there, soldiers outside began to spray bullets through the windows of the building.

In the smoky main ward, Carter lifted an old woman and placed her under her bed just as he heard a dull thud and a groan one bed away. A stray bullet penetrated an artery just beneath a young boy's clavicle. The blood spurted like a fountain from his upper chest.

"Oh God," Carter ran to the boy, 10 or 11 years old at the most, and lifted him from the bed and onto the floor.

Carter had no supplies—just the sterile gloves he was wearing. He grabbed a bed sheet, rolled a corner into a ball, and pressed hard on the wound to keep the blood inside the boy's body.

There was nothing he could do without any equipment—he needed a stethoscope to hear if the boy's heart was filling. Maybe he could get inside the wound and clamp it. But there was nothing within reach. Across the way was the storage room. From his spot under the bed, Carter strained his eyes to look for anything that might help. In the room, through the smoke, he saw the figure of a woman.

_No . . . that's crazy . . . it couldn't be. _From his spot on the floor, Carter's panicked mind thought the woman resembled Abby—but concluded it was just a ghostly apparition. He squeezed his eyes closed and opened them again to clear his vision and cursed his mind for playing tricks. With every blast, the smoke swirled some more, making it hard to focus. But when it cleared a bit, Carter noticed something:

This apparition was wearing his T-shirt.

He stayed focused on the figure in the room. When the rattle of an automatic rifle tore through the ward, he hunched his shoulders up to his ears to protect them, but he kept his eyes on the woman's face. A chill ripped through him when he realized those pretty eyes, cold with panic, were _her_ eyes. The hair damp with sweat was _her_ hair. The body stiff with terror was _her_ body. Carter's heart was pounding, and he realized it wasn't a dream. It was Abby in the middle of smoke and fire and bullets—an easy, open target.

"Abby! Get down!" he screamed over the bullets. _"Get down!"_

It was futile. The deafening noise made it impossible for her to hear him.

"_ABBY!"_ His screams hurt his throat. His heart beat faster. Getting to her would mean leaving the young boy with an open wound that would bleed out before he could ever reach Abby and come back. He looked down at the boy, who could see the desperation in Carter's eyes. Terror crossed the boy's face and his eyes bulged wide with fear.

Carter, his chest heaving, tested the wound by lifting his hand, but the torn artery still spurted. He pressed down hard again, and the boy's face begged him not to release the pressure again.

_"Je ne veux pas mourir."_

"You're not going to die!" Carter assured the boy, who spoke the one French phrase Carter learned well from working those weeks in a hospital where all patients feared dying—and most were right.

A bullet nicked a metal ceiling fan, spinning it and sending more smoke right on top of Carter. He inhaled a mouthful and coughed as he screamed to her once more.

"Ab-by!"

_Oh God._ He was terrified. _Help me . . . somebody._

He closed his eyes and tried desperately to connect with her—_Abby get down, please!_—when out of the smoky air a large hand came down on top of his, and a voice he recognized as Bendu Nyobi's boomed through the gunfire and shouted to him, _"Go!"_

He jerked his hand from beneath Bendu's and showed him how to hold the boy's wound.

"Like this, press hard," Carter shouted over the gunfire.

"Just _go_!" Bendu yelled.

Carter peeled off his gloves and ran toward the storage room, but ricocheting bullets sent him diving to the floor. He got up, stayed low, and kept running. He crawled the last few inches on his elbows, but the smoke was so dense he didn't see Abby until he was at her feet. He reached up and jerked her to the floor and covered her body and head with his own.

Abby trembled beneath him. He rested his head on her hair to steady her. He made a tent with his arms over them both, and his torso and legs made a snug cocoon. They braced themselves for several minutes, though it seemed like hours.

Then it fell quiet just as suddenly as it began.

The soldiers who battled over, around, and through the hospital eventually moved deeper into the jungle. When the smoke began to clear, Carter finally let himself breathe. Very slowly the silence was replaced by the whimpers of the frightened patients.

"Everybody okay?" Carter could hear Angelique ask out in the main ward.

"Over here!" He heard Bendu call out. Angelique's voice assured Carter the injured boy would be cared for.

Carter took a moment to calm himself. He was unhurt, but underneath him, Abby lay shivering. He took his time peeling himself away from her—it felt natural to want to hold onto her.

"It's okay," he said to her and he unwound his legs from her and lifted his head. "It's okay, it's okay. It's me." He stroked her arms and rubbed her back gently as she lay there, hunched over toward the floor, her face hidden from view, shaking. He pressed his lips to her head and then sat upright and tried gently to coax her up. "Shhhhh. It's okay now. I got you. I got you."

Between his soothing words, he bombarded her with questions: "What are you doing here? How did you get here? Are you crazy coming here?"

But Abby remained huddled on the floor and did not answer. Carter tossed aside his questions and simply comforted her. He leaned over her and kissed her hair and caressed her back some more: "Shhhhhh, it's all right. The fighting's over. We're going to be okay. Shhhhhh."

But Abby could not be comforted. Her body shuddered, and her silence teetered on sobs. Carter got to his feet and reached down to help her up. Abby rose only as far as her knees. She turned and held out her arms to him. In them, Carter saw a tiny, quiet baby with a small criss-cross bruise on her chest that darkened as he stared.

"X" marked the spot where the battle of men touched the heart of innocence.

Damaged.

_  
Next—_

_Chapter Seven: Reach_

_The ingredients of love are not what you think._


	7. Reach

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Reach**

**_Rating_: PG-13 (or the new equivalent).**

**_Summary_: Reunited—and it feels so good. Under a shower of bombs and bullets, Abby learns there are only two choices in a crisis: reach out or hide. Meanwhile, fire and smoke may be the least of Carter's challenges.**

**_Disclaimer_: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks.**

**_Author's Note_: There's comedy in ER, but ER's not a comedy. In fact, the characters we love experience a lot of drama, which ultimately helps them navigate their lives, and that's my intention here. I hope what they experience will free them of the things that haunt them and prevent them from being happy. So to those who are expecting the story to unfold in one way or another, know that life can change on a dime. Trust.**

**Thank you for taking the time to talk to me through notes and messages here and at boards we share.**

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CARTER REACHED TO take the baby from Abby. Even though she held out her arms to him, she gripped the infant tightly, confused for the moment by the smoke, the wails of the injured, and the echoes of the firefight from which they just emerged.

"Abby, give me the baby, okay?"

He tried to be understanding but had to move quickly.

"Abby, let me have the baby."

He gently cupped her face with his fingertips and squatted down to her.

"It's all right, you can let go now."

Carter firmly pried the injured infant from her arms and yelled for the best help he could find.

"Luka!"

Out in the main ward, a weak and tired Luka heard Carter's call and set the girl he was carrying down on her bed.

"You're going to be okay," he said to her and quickly checked the sutures that sealed the stump of her elbow. She lost the rest of her arm the week before in a skirmish near her village.

"I'll be back in a little while," Luka said with a wink.

"_Luka!"_

He followed Carter's cry to the storage room, where he saw him with an infant in one arm. With the other, Carter was trying to clear debris of a fallen ceiling fan from a small, high bed.

"Is there a neonatal intubation kit around?" Carter yelled as he brushed metal fragments from the little bed.

Luka stepped into the room and cleared the carcass of the dead fan. He swiftly lifted the tiny mattress and shook it free of bullet casings and paint chips and put it back on the bed. Carter placed the child on the mattress.

"No. I think Angelique has a pediatric mask—but it's still too big for an infant."

"Damn it, this one's needs an airway."

"How did a baby get in here?" Luka said as he quickly lifted Colette's tiny lids to look in her eyes.

Carter caught Luka's eye and nodded for him to look behind him. There stood Abby trembling. Her arms were crossed in front of her, hugging her own shoulders tightly.

"Abby?" Luka's soft tone didn't hide his surprise.

"I put her in here." Abby choked on the words as she looked up at the ceiling where rifle fire shook the fixture free.

Luka pulled off the baby's diaper and pressed on her belly. He glanced at Abby and quietly asked Carter, "What is she doing here?"

Carter shook his head. "I don't know," he said as he listened to the baby's chest with a stethoscope. "Damn it, no breath sounds. Can you hear anything?"

Luka grabbed his stethoscope, and as he plugged it in his ears, he said under his breath, "She can't stay here, John."

Luka listened carefully.

"Nothing," he said softly to Carter.

"Starting CPR." Carter pumped the baby's heart with his two middle figures and alternated with tiny puffs of air over her nose and mouth. Luka listened with his stethoscope for signs of progress.

Outside the room, the task of triaging victims of the fighting began to heat up.

"Sometimes babies survive blunt chest trauma better than adults because the rib cage is so flexible," Luka explained to Abby with his scope still to the baby's chest. "But if there is a rupture of the tracheobronchial tree . . ."

He shared a look with Carter that said the infant was likely already gone.

"Whose baby is this?" Carter asked Abby between puffs.

"I delivered her, but her mother bled out right in front of me."

"Any other family?"

"No one came for her," Abby said, her lip quivering. "I've been taking care of her."

"How did you get here?" he said, trying to understand. "I thought you were going home."

"I was, but in the airport I met Dr. Albrecht and some people with the Alliance. They were on their way here. They convinced me to come. I thought . . . I don't know . . . I thought maybe I could find you."

"Hold on," Luka said to Carter, who stopped CPR to let Luka get a better listen.

"No resps, no rhythm," Luka announced.

Carter resumed CPR.

"Here, let me," said Luka as he stepped in front of Carter to take over compressions on the infant's chest.

"No, it's okay."

"John," he said and nodded toward Abby. Her hands were cupped over her nose and mouth, her head slowly shaking from side to side.

"Let me," Luka said again, and Carter understood. He walked over to Abby and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders and his lips against her hair.

He whispered to her, "Tell me when you're ready. Take your time."

But it was Abby herself who said to Luka as he pumped the infant's bruised chest, "Enough—leave her alone, please."

No time was called. Nothing marked the beginning of the baby's life, and nothing marked its end. But in her short time on this earth, Abby loved her.

"MAY I HAVE your attention, please?"

Angelique's words sliced through the layer of sadness that threatened to build in the storage room. She was gathering the staff out in the main ward to coordinate the rescue effort in the besieged hospital.

"We have several injured patients as a result of the fighting," she said to her audience, which now included Carter, Luka, and Abby. "Doctors will assess them as rapidly as possible beginning at the far end of the ward. Give pharmacy orders to nurses _only_, please. Remember to ration the O-neg to likely survivors and suture quickly . . ."

Carter kept his eye on Abby, who seemed to be concentrating on Angelique's voice. But Carter could see her shoulders trembling. He moved closer to her and made sure their arms were touching.

"I want the names of the critical patients that we can't handle here," Angelique said. "We are going to airlift these patients to Kinshasa on the helicopter with Dr. Kovac."

Luka spoke up. "I'm fine. I can stay and help."

Angelique, ever practical, said, "No Luka, we need you to escort the criticals anyway."

She continued her instructions, but Carter was preoccupied with Abby. He sneaked a touch of her hair and whispered to her, "Are you okay?"

"Dr. Carter?" Angelique singled him out before he could get an answer. "What about those supplies you said you brought?"

"Uhh . . . I brought a microscope plus some lidocaine, etomidate, a few liters of saline—it's all in my bag."

"Somebody fetch Dr. Carter's bag for him—_quickly,_" Angelique ordered.

Carter looked toward Abby once again as if his head were on a spring. Abby seemed focused on Angelique, though in truth she was busy replaying the last thirty minutes in her mind. She remembered entering the baby's room stiff with terror from the flying bullets. She remembered seeing that the high ceiling fixture was no longer in its place. She had lifted Colette and held her close to her chest, covering her tiny ears from the noise. She could feel herself being jerked to the ground and carefully tucking Colette beneath her.

And then she remembered a feeling of warmth that spread over her like a soft blanket. She felt his body bring her close, cover every inch of her, and wrap himself through every part of her. It was Carter, and he breathed softly in her ear and reassured her with his body in ways only she would understand that it was indeed he who held her so tightly against the floor.

Now, however, in the absence of gunfire, Abby's defenses kicked in, and she retreated from him to suffer in her own head.

As Angelique continued speaking, Carter reached down and took Abby's hand in his. He caressed her fingers gently and held onto them for safekeeping.

"If there are no other questions, let's move!" Angelique concluded.

Quickly, the medical staff scattered into position.

Carter squeezed Abby's hand one last time and gave her a quick kiss on the head when no one was looking.

"Stay close to me," he said to her, and they joined the others.

Abby didn't react. She was neither comforted nor agitated. She was on auto-pilot, robotically relying on her deftness to carry her through. The three of them—Carter, Luka, and Abby—worked together through the early morning like the experienced team they were, assessing and treating a dozen and a half injured patients before the team of Albrecht, Angelique, and Claire made their way through eight.

Carter and Luka were in the middle of maneuvering a dislocated hip into place when Gillian called to Abby from across the room.

"We need another nurse over here!"

Abby's eyes met Carter's for the first time since they began working, and he reluctantly excused her from their trauma with a nod.

Ten minutes later, as they wrestled with the stubborn femur head, Carter and Luka heard Gillian yell.

"Abby!"

"Stop compressions, Abby, now!" Angelique chimed in from nearby.

"He's just a boy—we can save him," Abby argued as she pumped on the chest of an 11-year-old to the displeasure of the two women.

"But he'll need dialysis for the rest of his life—where is he going to get that in a refugee camp? Better to let him go," Angelique reasoned.

Abby persisted.

"Did you hear me, Abby? Let him go."

Abby continued pumping on the boy's chest.

"Let him go—you are _dismissed_ for the day," Angelique added.

The room fell quiet as staff and patients alike watched the standoff.

"Abby—"

Carter spoke her name from across the room. He was frozen mid-pose with all his weight on the hip joint of his patient.

At the sound of his voice, she slowly lifted her hands from the child, stripped off her gloves, and walked out into the sun and over to her cabin without a word.

When he stabilized his patient, Carter approached Angelique.

"Abby's an excellent nurse—best I've ever seen. It's just that she got close to that baby girl and lost her this morning. She hasn't figured out the right way—"

"There is no right way. Death is part of life. You deal with it and put it behind you."

"But—"

"John, I saw Abby with that baby. She cared for her like she was her own. It was a mistake, and I shouldn't have let it happen. We should have placed her in an orphanage right away. But we have a lot of sick babies here, and Abby will feel better if she uses her skills on the children that have a future."

"Sometimes it's not easy to choose," Carter reminded her.

"That's our job."

He looked out over the ward. "It's not fair that—"

"No, it's not."

He nodded.

"Can you tell me where—"

"Bungalow five."

"Thanks."

ABBY PUSHED THROUGH the door to her bungalow and stepped over fallen towels, a hairbrush, and the strewn contents of drawers to reach the bed. She grabbed a pillow and clutched it tightly.

Moments later, Carter approached her door and knocked softly.

"Abby?"

Inside, she pressed the pillow against her face and drew her knees up to her body.

He knocked again.

"Abby, it's me."

She hugged her knees even closer to her torso and didn't answer. _But why?_ she thought. _Isn't this what I was waiting for?  
_

"Abby, I talked to Angelique. I know you helped that baby. I know you . . . loved her, Abby."

"I'm okay, Carter," she said from her bed. "I didn't get much sleep last night, that's all."

"Okay, get some rest. I'll come back later." He waited for a response from the other side of the door.

"Abby, did you hear me?"

"Fine!"

_I know you . . . loved her._ Abby didn't know much at all about Colette—except that she was beautiful, and she was perfect. And Abby realized Maggie was right—they're all beautiful, and they're all perfect. _"They could be anything, and you'd just love them_," Maggie told her about children. Her children—children Abby could mother. Suddenly, a small spot in her heart cried, and a deep spot in her belly felt empty. She put her hand there, just beneath her belly button under the zipper of her pants, and realized she'd had this feeling many times before—and it always made her think about him.

AS CARTER WALKED back to the hospital, he could see a large, military-style helicopter set down in a clearing behind the building. It was emblazoned with a Red Cross insignia. Hospital workers were ferrying patients to and from the aircraft, and Carter detoured to help. When the last injured patient was loaded, Luka sat at the edge of the craft and offered Carter his hand.

"Thank you," he said.

Carter shrugged.

"I mean it—you saved my life."

"Mr. Nyobi and his workers dug you out—"

"You came back for me, Carter. I won't forget that."

Carter smiled modestly.

"Well, at least you get to ride in one of these," Carter said and smacked the side of the chopper. "I haven't done that since I was a kid."

"You had a helicopter when you were a kid?"

"No, but my brother loved them, so my grandfather would hire one every year for his birthday. He'd take me with him, and the pilot would fly us around the city."

Carter twirled his fingers in the air to simulate their flight and smiled at the memory. "But that was a long time ago."

"You don't do it anymore?"

"Don't have a brother anymore."

Carter looked away, but met Luka's eyes when he felt his hand on his shoulder. "Yes, you do."

Luka's words moved him, and Carter reached for his hand.

"Take care of yourself, Luka."

The helicopter propellers started to whirl.

"Take care of Abby," Luka said, raising his voice over the sound of the blades.

Carter nodded his head and shielded his eyes from the propellers.

Luka warned even more loudly: "Get her out of here."

"I will," Carter answered. They were shouting now.

The pilot motioned for Carter to step back from the helicopter.

"Don't let her fool you, John," Luka yelled as the propellers hit full speed.

Carter stepped back, both arms shielding his head. His T-shirt blew furiously as it filled with air from the craft.

"Fool me?" Carter shouted.

The copter began to lift off the ground. Luka pulled his legs in, but before the door slid shut, he shouted as loud as he could: _"She loves you!"_

CARTER WATCHED AS the helicopter took off and waited until it almost disappeared from view. Then he headed back to the hospital but changed his mind as he peeked down the row of bungalows.

"Abby, it's me," he announced at her door once more.

_Knock. Knock. _

"Abby?"

_Abby?_ The sound of her name on his lips woke her up. She had fallen asleep layered in a parfait of sweaty sheets and blankets.

"Abby, are you hungry?"

"What?" she answered with sleep in her voice.

"Do you want me to bring you something to eat? There's eggs and toast in the cafeteria."

She didn't answer. Abby retreated inside herself at the first sign of pain—that's what she always did. It was not the first time she found herself holed up in a darkened room—only usually there was a bottle on the bed with her.

He touched his fingertip to the door, trying hard to connect with her.

"Abby, please open the door."

She sat up on her knees with a sheet wound around her.

"Carter, I'm not hungry. Please just—"

That's when she caught herself in the mirror over the wicker chest.

"Abby? _Abby?_"

She touched her hands to her face and realized she'd had this feeling many times before—and it always made her think about Maggie.

Carter walked slowly back toward the hospital, turning around frequently to see if she'd changed her mind and emerged from the safety of her self-built cocoon. Once inside, he treated several new patients—victims of the morning's fighting as the soldiers penetrated the refugee camps. They worked miracle after miracle that afternoon, and soon smiles began to replace the cries in the ward. Carter wished Abby could see that even though the poor baby was gone, their work reunited many families that day.

CARTER STEPPED OUTSIDE the hospital into the mid-afternoon sun to stretch his legs. He descended the wooden steps, walked to the side of the building, and looked out over the two rows of bungalows down toward Abby's. He caught sight of a man approaching her door and decided to stroll over once again himself.

At Abby's door, Albrecht knocked and spoke to her. "Hey, it's Damon. Haven't seen you all day."

"Hello," Carter said from the bottom of Abby's steps. The sound of his voice spun Albrecht around.

"Dr. Carter," Albrecht said. "Nice to see you up and about."

"I saw you in the hospital, but I don't think we've met," Carter responded with his hand extended.

Albrecht descended the small steps to shake Carter's hand.

"We have, but you were in no shape to remember. I'm Damon Albrecht—Damon."

"John."

They grasped hands.

"She's not doing too well, huh?" Albrecht said, glancing over his shoulder at Abby's door.

"Yeah, well, she got attached to the baby girl," Carter said.

"I warned her about that. She talked about taking her back to Chicago."

"It would have been better if _she_ stayed in Chicago. I understand you convinced her to come here," Carter said. He tried not to make his concern for her sound like an accusation.

"We met in the Paris airport. I didn't have to _convince_ her exactly . . . "

"She's strong, but it's a tough place for her."

"I think she's managing just fine," Albrecht said.

"She's a terrific nurse. I'm just saying it isn't a good place for her here."

"Like I said—I think she's managing just fine."

"You live in Paris?" Carter inquired.

"No, I'm from Vaduz."

"Liechtenstein—beautiful place," Carter recalled.

"Thank you. But I spent a great deal of time in Paris as a boy," Albrecht said. "My parents would bring us every spring, and we'd stay for weeks."

"Mine, too—we're from Chicago."

"In Paris, Le Tremoille was second home to me," Albrecht said. "Still is."

"My grandparents favored the Hotel de Crillon."

"Nice," Albrecht said and reached into his pocket to retrieve a cigarette. "So, Dr. Carter, what do you do in Chicago?"

"I'm an ER attending at our County hospital. You?"

"Oh, I don't have the guts of you guys in emergency medicine. I just dabble in surgery."

"I started out in surgery myself. Sometimes I miss it . . . the appendicitis, the hernias."

"Yes, but I'm more interested in the heart . . . lungs."

"Oh, great field. But it's hard to break into—"

"Actually, I've just been named associate chief of cardio-thoracic surgery at the National Hospital of Vaduz."

In Carter's eyes, it officially made him medical royalty.

"Well . . . good luck with that," Carter said, nodding his head.

Albrecht lit his cigarette close to his face, and Carter wondered why a chest surgeon would have a taste for smoking—unfiltered cigarettes, no less. The match illuminated the jagged scar that ran across his temple from his hairline to the corner of his eye. Albrecht caught Carter's gaze.

"Just another day in the Congo," he said of his souvenir.

"I had a day like that—pretty scary," Carter said and formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it toward the middle of his forehead.

"And yet you came back," Albrecht said as the smoke escaped his lungs.

"Yeah, but I think I learned my lesson this time."

Albrecht laughed and started to walk away. "Good for you, Carter. I never learn." He dropped his cigarette to the ground. "Tell her I was asking for her, won't you?"

INSIDE, ABBY LAY on the lumpy mattress and stared at the ceiling. She was tired but unable to sleep, hungry but unable to eat.

At the top of the steps, Carter didn't bother to knock this time. He just spoke to her through the door.

"Abby, it's me."

She heard his voice. _I miss you. I don't want to feel this way_, she thought.

"I'm worried about you."

_I need you._

"I want to help you."

_Rescue me._

"I'm here for you. I've always been here for you."

_Except when you weren't._

"I know you think I ran away," he said. Frustration started to replace sympathy. "But you keep pushing me . . ."

_Push back. Don't just leave me._

He pressed his forehead against the door and said softly, "Abby, don't do this . . . please."

_I don't know how to do anything else._

Abby wanted to open the door and let him comfort her. She felt an ache in her chest, and she put her hand there and realized she'd had this feeling before. And when she touched her heart —God, when she touched her heart—she saw the two of them so clearly_ . . . together_.

"_I'M NOT GOING anywhere," he assured her as her eyes grew moist with worry over the fate of her brother. She told Carter she'd need something to hold onto in the coming weeks, as they would no doubt learn more about his sickness. It became clear on that day that Eric was suffering from the same mental illness as their mother—the one that robbed them of their childhood._

"_Let's heat up the fish and chips. You need to eat something," Carter said after an hour of talking at her dining table._

_As they ate, she told long-buried stories of their struggles as children, and his heart broke for her. When he thought she'd relived enough, he stood up from the table, reached for her hand, and led them into her bedroom. He slipped off his shoes, pulled off his shirt, and lay on her bed. She crawled on after, and he patted a spot on his chest for her to aim her tired head. He reached for her, guided her down to him, and caressed her face and hair._

"_Thanks," she managed to say._

"_For what?"_

"_For this."_

_She meant for caring enough to send her home from the ER early. For bringing food for her empty stomach. For listening to the sound of her heart breaking as she came to accept that her perfect baby brother was sick. And for promising to stick by her as the chaos mounted._

_He kissed the top of her head._

"_Close your eyes," he whispered. "Hold onto me." _

Hold onto me._ The words were so soft she could barely hear anything but the consonants as they touched his lips on the way out._

_She helped him by letting him know his words were comforting—at least, she tried to._

"_You know, I never . . . Nobody ever . . . It's hard for me . . . "_

_She spoke in the bashful language of the self-conscious, the withdrawn, the untrusting. But he felt her leaning on him—and it felt so good._

"_Shhh, I know, I know." And he rolled over onto his side, facing her closed eyes, and pulled her closer. He sandwiched her legs between his and stroked her back over and over again. She exhaled deeply and snuggled against the warmth of his body, soothed by the rhythm of his heartbeat and his breathing and his touch._

_A little while later, he whispered, "Feel better?"_

_Eyes still closed, she said, "Yes."_

_There in her bed, folded in his arms, Abby had the strength to acknowledge that it was one of the worst days of her life._

_With her so close to him, depending on him, letting him in, Carter thought, in a way, it was one of his best._

SHE NEEDED HIM. She wanted that feeling again—the feeling she had that night. The feeling that anything could happen and he would be there. The feeling that everything would be okay as long as she could end the night with her head on his chest.

Abby emerged from the cocoon of her bed, hopped over the inventory on the floor, and swung open the door.

"John, I—"

He was gone.

She stepped barefoot out of her door, looked down the row of cabins, and saw him ascending the small steps to his.

"Carter!"

She quickly tiptoed down her steps and called to him again.

"_John!"_

He disappeared inside. She pursed her lips with her hands on her hips and cursed her bad timing under her breath with an expletive that made good use of consonants "k" and "f," not necessarily in that order.

Abby ran back inside and slammed the door behind her, causing the bulb under the butterfly lampshade to flicker. She washed her face, replaced her borrowed T-shirt with a clean bra and white cap-sleeve pullover, and brushed her hair. And then she went to him as the light under the butterfly lampshade still flickered.

Outside, Abby walked from bungalow No. 5 to No. 4, and jogged from No. 4 to No. 3, and flew as fast as her wings would carry her from No. 3 to No. 2. She ran up the rickety steps that led to his door and knocked hard.

He opened the door, and she stood there looking at him, breathing heavily from her sprint.

"Hi," he said. He was relieved to see her, though he wasn't sure what to do next.

When she saw him, all the words in her head raced for her tongue at the same time: _I'm sorry, I need you, I miss you, I love you, I hurt, hug me, help me, hold me._

She stood before him wide-eyed until one thought pushed the others aside. Her lips parted, and all she said was:

"I want to go home."

He knew what to do then. He reached for her waist with one arm, shut the door with the other, and pulled her against him.

"It's okay."

She reached up, clutched his shoulders, and rested her head on his chest. "Please, I want to go home."

"I'll take you home. I promise."

He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. They didn't speak, but his hands were in constant motion—caressing her hair, stroking her back, rubbing her arms, clutching her waist—as if assuring himself she was truly there. She stayed huddled against him with her eyes closed and just let him feel her.

Finally, he pulled her an arm's length away and spoke: "What are you doing here? Are you crazy?"

"Blame Susan—she's the one who thought I should go to Paris in the first place."

"Susan?"

She crawled on the end of his bed, which was still unmade from the night before. She sat cross-legged and looked up at him as he stood leaning against the wicker dresser.

"I told her you went to find Luka. She thought I should try to stop you in Paris."

"How did you know—"

"You left your itinerary on the table in the lounge."

He remembered.

"When I found you in Paris, you weren't even happy to see me."

"I was happy. It's just—you made it harder for me."

"_I_ made it harder for _you_?"

He couldn't meet her eyes. He was so angry that day . . . so hurt.

"And then the next morning you went away before I woke up," she recalled. "And you left me a check on the nightstand, after the night before we—"

"I had to go, Abby. I didn't think we'd end up together that night."

"Do you know how that _felt_?" she said. "Do you know what that made me _feel_ like?" She looked down and picked at the fabric of the bed linens.

Carter slipped off his shoes, crawled on the bed, and sat cross-legged in front of her. With his knees touching hers, he reached and pressed his lips to her forehead and held them there.

"You know I didn't mean it like that," he said quietly.

His soft lips made a warm "o" on her forehead that lingered even after he pulled away. Abby missed his lips. She knew if she just tilted her head up a little, they'd fall into a kiss. But she kept her gaze focused on the bed linens as she recounted the difficult morning that brought her to the Congo.

"Just before I left the hotel, a woman from the Alliance called on your cell phone." She reached into her pocket and took out the tiny, silver gadget. "Her name was Bernadette . . . _something_."

"Dumont?" he said, taking the phone from her.

"Yeah, Dumont."

Carter recalled, "She's the one who called the ER when Luka was missing."

"She said Luka may be alive, and she wanted you to call her. So I looked for you at the airport to—"

"—give me the message?"

"Uh huh, and to return your cell phone—and your check. I didn't want it." She leaned her weight away from him and back on her hands. "I didn't want your money," she pouted. "I wanted . . ."

"What?"

She wanted him to be there when she woke up in a big, foreign city. She wanted him to erase the memory of the night before when she cried herself to sleep after empty sex. She wanted to feel him sleeping behind her with his hands on her stomach up underneath the too-big T-shirt that she borrowed from him. But instead—

"You left me there."

"I was hurt."

"_You_ were hurt?"

He turned and unfolded his legs and let them drop over the end of the bed.

He said angrily, "The _key_—remember? You took it back." His face began to get red.

She tried to explain, "You disappeared on me—"

"You were disappearing on me long before I ever went to Africa."

He stood up from the bed and looked at her. She saw frustration in his face.

"Abby, you pull away every time something bad happens," he explained.

"When did—"

"This morning. Or how about when your brother was missing in his plane?"

"So you left to hurt me?"

He sat down on the bed again and rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

He fell back on the bed with his feet still planted on the floor and covered his eyes with his palms. Abby crawled over to him. She curled up next to him and rested her head on his stomach facing him. He lifted his hands from his eyes and was surprised to see her so close.

"Yes, you did," she said to him. "I hurt you, and so you wanted to hurt me back."

"You didn't hurt—"

"Yes, I did . . . when your grandmother died, and I went to Des Moines to get Eric. But I did what I had to do, and you got hurt by accident. But you—you hurt me on purpose."

"I know," he reached down and gently stroked the side of her face with the back of his fingers. "I could feel myself doing it. It's very—"

"Immature and despicable?" she offered.

"I was thinking _passive-aggressive_."

"Nope, I'm pretty sure it was immature and despicable."

"You're right," he said. He bent one arm and rested it behind his head as a pillow and moved his hand to her lips and traced them with his fingertip.

"But what about leaving my stuff in a bag on my locker?" he said. "That was pretty deliberate."

She sat up abruptly.

"Look, I didn't want my key back, and I wasn't really giving you your stuff back. Do you think that's all you had at my apartment? A T-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a picture of us with my brother?"

He sat up, too. "Then why did you do it?"

"I-I was trying to start a fight."

"Why would you want to fight?"

She exhaled loudly in frustration. "I wanted us to talk! I wanted to hear you say that you weren't mad at me and that—"

"Why didn't you just tell me I hurt you? Why did you—"

"_I don't know!"_ Abby felt herself explode. She jumped off the bed and raced to his bathroom in large, heavy steps.

Carter sat on the side of the bed nearest the bathroom with his head in his hands. When he heard the little sliding latch release on the door, he looked up. She slinked out and leaned her shoulder against the door frame.

"It's not true. I do know why," she said. "You hurt me, so I wanted to hurt you back."

He looked at her as her gold-highlighted hair draped half her face, concealing her guilt.

"We do the same thing," he concluded. "We're both—"

—idiots," she finished.

"I was thinking _insecure._"

"No, I'm pretty sure we're idiots."

"You're right again."

"You'd think you'd be used to it by now."

Their hurt expressions shattered into smiles.

He reached out his hand to her, and she took it. He pulled her onto the bed again with him. They lay side by side across the width.

"What?" she said when she noticed him staring. "Why are looking at me like that?"

"When you smile, you're so . . . pretty."

She pursed her lips. "Pretty _bad_ you mean."

"What?"

"I must have been pretty bad for you to change your mind about me."

"When did I—" he said, but then recalled she knew he bought out the restaurant that evening intending to give her his great-grandmother's ring. "_It didn't feel right," _he told her later.

"I didn't change my mind about you. I just . . . I want someone who really needs me."

"Well, if you keep doing that super-hero thing . . ." she said to lighten things up. Abby had an extra sense just to alert her when she may need to reveal her feelings, and she side-stepped the discussion expertly.

"Super-hero?"

"Dodging bullets and bombs to rescue me from the Bad Guys," she teased.

Remembering the close call from earlier that morning erased the smile from his face. He leaned over to her, touched his forehead to hers, and stroked her hand with one fingertip.

He said, "When I realized it was you and that you could get hurt, I was . . . scared."

He pulled his forehead away and let his brown eyes penetrate hers. And he saw the look that made him want to pull her body closer and hold her longer—say, for the rest of his life.

"Don't ever do that again, okay?" she said.

"Do what?"

She propped herself up on her elbows. "Throw yourself in front of guns or grenades or a moving train . . . for _me_."

"I can't make any promises." He slid closer and rested his hand on her stomach.

"Isn't it bad enough what happened today?" The two arms on which she balanced herself trembled a bit. "What if that were you?"

"But nothing happened to me."

"But what if something _did_?" She was getting agitated. "What if—"

"Shhhhh, but I'm fine. Look at me, Abby, I'm fine."

He brought her face toward him. Her trembling arms gave way underneath her and she lay on her back with her chest rising and falling. He moved even closer and kissed her temple. The repressed pain of the day rose to the surface with each breath.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he said.

"About what?"

"This morning . . . the baby."

"Why?"

"Because it might help."

"There's nothing to say—I delivered her. I couldn't save her mother. I couldn't save h—."

She choked and shook her head, preferring not to speak about it any longer. Carter rolled flat on his back next to her, and they stared over their heads—at the ceiling fan.

A little while later, Abby spoke again: "I know it sounds stupid, but . . . I named her."

"Named her?"

"The baby—I had a name for her. Stupid, right?" She forced a smile while she gauged him from the corner of her eye.

He turned to her and nuzzled her hair with his nose and pressed small kisses against her temple until her smile was real.

"What was her name?"

"I called her _Colette_ because her mother's name was _Ni_colette."

Though he knew Abby so well, his inventory of her moods and emotions did not include the one he saw when she spoke of this baby. He found himself picturing Abby caring for the little girl. He saw her rocking her in the crook of her arm and bathing her in a tiny tub. He pictured Abby soothing her cries by kissing her head and stroking her back. He took these pictures and filed them away in an album he kept just for himself in his mind. It included an image of Abby in a white gown with his ring on her finger, and another with her mouth forming the words "I love you," and another with her naked breast embraced by chubby baby hands.

"_Colette_ . . ." he thought, coming back to the moment. "It's a pretty name."

She couldn't explain it: Watching Carter as he spoke of the baby girl and called her by her name _"Colette"_ moved Abby deeply. She lifted her arms over her head and dropped them on the bed behind her. She forced a frown and feigned indifference to prevent her emotions from taking over. She exhaled hard, sending loose strands of hair off her face, and stared at the ceiling to keep any tears within the confines of her lids.

Carter could see her struggling. He rolled over onto her and put his hand on her face and stroked her cheek with his thumb until she looked at him. And when she did, he kissed her softly. His lips were a little wet, and hers were puffy from pouting. And when he pulled his mouth away, her expression had changed from defensive to soft.

"It's okay," he said as his thumb stroked her cheek.

He had kissed her shield away. One small tear slipped from the corner of her eye and rolled into her ear and tickled it, and then the rest came down.

He kissed each salty cheek as emotion drained from her. "It's all right," he said between kisses. "It's okay."

When she could speak again, she looked right at him. Her lips said to him: "That baby was all alone—she didn't have anyone but me."

But her eyes said: _"I'm not scared anymore, John. I want to be a mother."_

He wiped the tears from her cheeks, kissed her forehead, and rested his hand on the side of her face.

His lips said: "She was lucky to have you."

But his eyes skipped her ears and spoke directly to her heart:

_"I love you. I want to make you a mother. Can you hear me, Abby?  
I want to make you a mother."_

She heard him.

She answered with glistening eyes and full lips on his mouth. And there, huddled together across the bed, a man in love kissed the woman he loved with soft lips and shy tongues.

"Do you know why I came here?" she asked when they pulled away for a moment.

"To the Congo or to my room?"

"Both."

"Why?"

"I came here because . . ." She paused and exhaled as if she were about to lift a heavy weight—or let one go. "I came here because I . . . n-need you."

It wasn't just the sound of the words, it was the look in her eyes that took his breath away.

It felt good to say it. Abby felt . . . _normal_. So she said it again with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. "I need you."

He kissed her again, harder.

"I'm here," he said, but it was hard to decipher, since his mouth was so firmly against hers.

And then he kissed her again.

And again.

Outside, the late day sun was beginning to set. Strong golden blades of light pierced the small, high window of Carter's bungalow. He pulled himself away from her and slipped off his shirt. He slid up the bed to his pillow, stretched out comfortably, and patted the pillow next to his.

"Come on," he said inviting her. "You've had a long day. Stay here with me."

She followed him to the head of the bed. But before she dropped into the spot he made for her, she kneeled by him and pulled one arm out from under her shirt and then the other, until the bunched-up cloth made a ring around her neck. Then she lifted the material over her head and lay next to him, clad in her bra and jeans. He leaned over her, and her arms slipped around his naked back. And they kissed a while longer.

"Do your stitches hurt?" she asked as she pulled away from him a little to slow them down a bit. She knew what he'd soon want because she already wanted it herself.

"No, not at all. They did I good job," he said looking down at his own chest from his position above her.

"Do you remember the crash?"

He thought a bit.

"I remember examining Luka . . . I remember seeing the bullet holes . . . " He rolled his weight back onto his side but kept his arm around her. "I remember being scared."

She moved closer and placed a kiss near his sutures.

"I did them."

"Did what?"

With her fingertip she traced the line of black threads.

"_You_ sutured me?" he asked.

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head. "They're not bad, though."

"They're pretty good!" she insisted.

He clasped her fingers and held them against his chest.

"I'm teasing. They're perfect. Come here."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly, and then more intensely, and then with an unmistakable urgency. He placed his hands on the bed to either side of her and slid his lips down to make a necklace of small kisses from one side of her throat to the other. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. Her arms drifted over her head and clutched the pillow behind her, giving him better access to her neck. And soon his hand freely roamed her body.

"John?" she said softly, trying to get his attention.

"Hmmm?" he responded without moving his lips from her skin.

"Can I ask you something?"

He lifted his head from her neck.

"Sure," he said and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.

"Do you remember calling my answering machine from the airport in Paris?"

"Yeah," he said.

"And then you called again?"

He nodded and pulled away from her a bit.

"The second time you left a message that said, _'I just want you to know . . .'_ but you never said what."

He rolled away from her onto his back. She noticed his eyes grew distant and darker.

"What is it?" she asked, puzzled. "What did you want to tell me?"

She reached out to him, intending to touch his face and gently nudge it back toward hers, but she caught her arm on something beneath her pillow. It was a piece of cloth—no, a strap. A pale pink strap. A bra strap. When she continued to tug, the pale pink cotton of the cups came with it.

Abby sat up and dangled it from her fingers over his face like a flounder on a fish hook. Carter swallowed hard.

"Oh my God," she said and shoved herself away from him. A painful crease appeared where her brow was tightly knitted. Her mouth hung open.

Carter recognized the bra as Debbie's. In her haste to leave his room the night before, Debbie left with just her shirt.

Carter bolted upright and began to breathe rapidly. His face, still pale since the crash, disappeared into whiteness, while Abby's, flush with excitement from his intimate touches, grew redder with anger and humiliation.

"Oh God," she said, her voice trembling. "You were you calling me back to say we were over, weren't you?"

"Abby, wait—"

She swung her legs off the bed and tossed the bra to him.

"I can't believe this," she mumbled angrily to herself as she lifted the covers in search of her own shirt.

"Abby, I—"

"You called back to break up with me? And I came to Africa like a fool when you really meant for us to be over?"

"No, I—"

"No? Then if we weren't over, you were—"

The words got stuck in her throat.

"—sleeping with someone behind my back?"

She couldn't even say the words _cheating_ or _unfaithful_ because of so many familiar fights with Richard. Betrayal defined her marriage to him, just as trust bound her to Carter—until now.

"Well, which is it?" she challenged.

"Neither, I—"

"Whose is it anyway?"

"Debbie's. But—"

"Debbie?"

"She drove us to Matenda to find—"

"I don't understand—was she naked in bed with you or not?"

"Yes. I mean _no_. I mean not _completely_, but—"

"I was right," she said as she found her pullover. "You have really big problems, Carter." She pulled on the shirt, stuffed her head and arms through the holes, and tugged her long hair out of the neck. Then she kicked around the floor near the bed to locate her shoes.

"First of all," he said as he found his voice, "_you_ broke up with _me_ the morning I came home. But that's not the point, I hardly touched her!"

Mistake.

A tactical mistake.

He could tell as the words came out of his mouth, but he couldn't stop them.

Abby whipped her head around to look at him, and her hair flew in a wild circle. When it settled, she was glaring at him with fire in her eyes.

Carter felt his hands start to shake. He crawled off the bed on the opposite side from where she stood.

"Abby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Really?" she said with her hands on her hips. "You _hardly_ touched her? I feel so much better now." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Abby, please—"

"And did you think we were broken up when you made love to me in Paris—if that's what you'd call it?"

"No, I—"

"Isn't it ironic?" she cried as she slipped into her shoes. "You didn't think I cared about you, but I did. And I thought you cared about me, but you didn't._"_

"Abby, you're—"

She flung open the door and slammed it behind her.

"—wrong."

He wasn't going to let her go this easily again. Carter searched through the sheets for his own discarded shirt and pulled it over his head. He slipped into his shoes and opened the door to go after her but was met by Angelique.

"John, I'm sorry, but we need you inside."

"What is it?"

"It seems a land mine had the nerve to separate a young man from his leg."

"Soldier?"

"A 12-year-old with a semi-automatic, so around here that means _yes_."

Over Angelique's shoulder, Carter caught a glimpse of Abby walking swiftly toward her cabin through the shadows of the setting sun. Her head hung low and her arms were folded across her chest. Carter quickly gathered his stethoscope and followed Angelique toward the hospital, just as Damon Albrecht headed toward Abby's bungalow, too.

ABBY HOPPED UP the three small steps leading to her door and entered her dim room. She reached under the butterfly lampshade and smacked the bulb to keep it steady. She pulled her overnight bag out from its hiding place under the bed, and snatched her clothing one by one off the makeshift clothesline in the bathroom.

A knock at the door was accompanied by Albrecht's voice.

"Abigail, it's Damon. I thought you'd like to know we've taken care of the little one. She'll be returned to the camps for proper interment."

Abby opened the door.

"Thanks."

She left it open for him to enter if he wished, though she continued packing.

He walked in, looked around, and leaned against the wicker dresser with one leg crossed over the other. Abby didn't look up.

"I'm sorry about that infant, Abigail."

"Colette," she corrected as she opened a drawer behind him, forcing him to step aside.

"I know it was a stunning defeat for you today."

She stopped to look at him. "_Stunning defeat_? Who says words like that? It was a baby's life!"

Grief and anger choked her from the inside, and she dared not speak much more.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, _I'm_ sorry," she said, regretting her show of temper.

She sat on the bed and began folding her clothes, and wondered where things had gone wrong.

_TYPICALLY, ABBY WOULD prepare a mug of tea for herself and for Carter when they returned from dinner—but this was not a typical night, since they dined alone in a restaurant in which every seat was purchased in advance courtesy of the Carter family fortune. But on those typical nights, Abby would wait for Carter to come out of the bedroom in soft, fleece drawstring pants and a T-shirt that he kept on the shelf of her closet. She'd put their mugs on the coffee table. While the tea cooled a bit, she'd change into her slender pajama top and equally soft pants and then join him on the couch, where they'd sip their tea and watch television. Later, when their mugs were empty, he'd rest his on a magazine on the coffee table and take hers from her hands and place it down, too. Then he'd lean back on the armrest of the sofa, stretch one leg across the length of the seat, and rest his other foot on the floor. He'd pull her between his legs, and she'd rest her head on his body, and they'd listen to the news of the day. As they watched, he'd stroke her hair and run his fingertips up and down her arm, and they'd comment on events in the world. Many times, they'd fall asleep just that way, and he'd wake up in the wee hours and gently coax her to bed. _

"_Abby," he'd softly say to her. "Abby, let's go inside."_

"_Hmmm. You go, I'll be there in a minute," she'd say without ever opening her eyes. Then she'd purr and clutch him closer as she continued to sleep. And he'd lay back, imprisoned, and watch her dream with his stomach and groin as her pillow. _

_However, tonight he emerged from the room still fully dressed, though he removed his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. So she kept on her silk blouse and black pants. They sat quietly at her small, round dining table and drank their tea._

_The evening started out normally except for his strange instructions to meet her outside the restaurant on the frigid February evening. Inside, he surprised her by buying out the restaurant to ensure their privacy. Dinner was followed by a short-but-sincere speech about their relationship—about being ready, "in the right place," making it stick, and something about changing and growing. And though he planned to make their relationship permanent that night—and she suspected he would—they both left the restaurant disappointed and as frightened and insecure as they went in. Maybe more so._

"_Are you okay?" she asked as they sipped their tea at the table._

_He nodded, but his lips were clenched tightly._

"_Are you sure?"_

"_I'm fine."_

_They drank in silence. When she was done, she dropped her mug on the table with a heavy thud, just to startle them into communicating. He looked at her but said nothing. She pushed out her chair and went into the bedroom and started to undress. As she unbuttoned her blouse, he appeared in the doorway of the room. His expression was a little sad, even a little cold._

"_Are you mad at me?" she asked him._

_He shook his head. "No, I'm not mad at you," he said softly, but he made no move to come closer to her. He just watched her with distant eyes._

_Carter looked at her and wondered how he could love this woman so much and still feel so unsure. He was beginning to resent that they were not on the same path, and the distance between them felt obvious tonight._

_He watched her unbutton the rest of her silk blouse and thought about all the nights he'd touched her. But when he looked at her tonight, he couldn't see beyond this night—and he didn't know why._

_She felt it. He'd watched her undress before, but this time she saw no warmth and felt no intimacy, and so when she slid her black pants over her hips and set her breasts free from her satin bra, she turned her back to him._

"GOING SOMEWHERE?" ALBRECHT finally asked.

"I'm leaving in the morning—however I can get out of here."

"Carter going with you?"

"I'm not really interested in Dr. Carter's plans," she mumbled.

"Well, I'm heading for Kinshasa this evening—that's what I came to tell you. I've got a flight to Paris late tonight. I just came to finish out Kovac's stint. Angelique has two replacements coming in a week. May I escort you?"

Abby aggressively sealed the zipper of her bag. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the lavender butterfly underwear she'd carried all the way from Chicago.

She answered: "Sure, why not?" Only she made it a statement and not a question.

ONE TRAUMATIC AMPUTATION turned into a night full of six young teenagers damaged by a stroll though a mine field—not one more than 15 years old. When the marathon was over, four lived, and three of those lost at least one limb. Carter took a breath and went outside, surprised to see the sun again. He reached into a barrel of rainwater and splashed it on his face.

In the distance, the door to Abby's cabin was partly open. Carter ran his wet hands through his hair, took a deep breath, and walked over.

"Abby?" he said as he lightly rapped on the door with his knuckle.

He pushed it open further with the tips of his fingers and slipped inside. As he feared, the small room was empty of her belongings, and a dull pain throbbed in his chest. He sat on the bed and rested his head in his hands. The smell of her skin—that smell that intoxicated him—lingered in the room. He replayed their last few moments together in his bungalow and rubbed his lids to erase the fear of betrayal he saw in her soft, brown eyes.

"Dr. Carter?"

He lifted his head from his hands at the sound of his name. It was Angelique at the threshold of the cabin.

"John, are you okay?"

Carter took a deep breath, nodded his head, and decided to confirm with his ears what his eyes and his heart already knew.

"Abby—she left?" Carter asked.

"Yes," Angelique said. "She left last night with Dr. Albrecht."

"With . . . Albrecht?" The pain in his chest worsened, and he gripped his thighs tightly.

"Yes."

Carter stood and rubbed his hands against his face over and over.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize until recently that you and Abby were . . . acquainted," Angelique said diplomatically.

"Where were they going, do you know?" His voice was faint as he contained his frustration.

"Damon is returning to Liechtenstein. I understand he was accompanying Abby as far as Paris on her way back to Chicago."

She looked at her watch. "If they caught the red eye from Kinshasa, they'll be arriving in Paris this morning."

Angelique could see Carter's frustration. "I'm sorry, John. I know Abby had a rough time here."

"She had a lot to deal with: Luka, the crash, the baby . . . _me_," he said the last part to himself.

"I wish Abby could have stayed a little longer. There's a woman here to claim the baby. She is the mother's sister—the baby's aunt. I thought she might like to know that Abby had taken such good care of her. I thought Abby would want to meet her."

"I think she would have."

"I was hoping you would talk to her. Tell her about Abby."

"Sure," Carter agreed as he rubbed his eyes in exhaustion and frustration. "I'll be there in a minute."

"She's in the ward," Angelique said and turned to leave.

ABBY STARED OUT the window of the airliner as it made its final descent into Paris. Only the tip of the Eiffel tower punctured the layer of early morning clouds. Abby did not expect to find herself in Paris again so quickly. She pulled the beige plastic cover over the aircraft window and leaned back in her seat.

Albrecht's voice intruded into her thoughts: "You look like you need a shot of bourbon."

"It's 6:30 in the morning," Abby reminded him.

"You're right—maybe we should make it a double."

"No, thanks," she chuckled.

"At least I got you to smile. How about coffee?"

"Aren't we about to land?"

"I can pull a few strings."

She smiled again. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Did you call the airline from Kinshasa? Are you able to get a flight home from Paris?"

"Yeah, there's nothing until tonight."

"You've got a long day ahead," he observed.

_That's for sure_, she thought.

He leaned his blond head back in his seat and gave her a sympathetic smile. "Allow me to offer my hospitality while you wait."

IN THE WARD, a beautiful woman with smooth, dark skin and luxurious high cheekbones awaited Carter. Except for her much darker skin and eyes, the woman resembled strongly the light-eyed, cream-colored infant he tried to save the morning before.

He introduced himself and brought her to the storage room where the baby remained on the small high bed swaddled completely in a soft, white cotton sheet. The woman cupped Colette's head.

"The innocent," she said softly in the beautiful French-tinged English Carter had heard often in this place.

Carter cleared his throat and explained gently, "There was a woman—a nurse—who looked after the baby when your sister passed away."

The woman looked into his eyes.

"She took very good care of her," he said.

She turned to face him and watched him as he spoke.

"The nurse—she tried to protect her during the fighting."

The woman looked deep into Carter's pained eyes and saw something.

"Thank you for telling me," she said and put her hand on Carter's arm. "I'll pray this woman is rewarded for her kindness."

She reached into a woven bag she carried and pulled out a piece of folded cloth embellished with a colorful pattern of triangles—black and red and gold. She spread it open.

"In our family, this pattern represents continuing life," she explained as she gently began folding the cloth around the baby. "The black represents her loss here on this earth. But the gold represents riches in heaven, and the red is the wish that she be loved."

"It's beautiful," Carter said.

"This baby was born in chaos," she said. "I wish her reborn in peace."

Carter said, "Chaos?"

"My sister lost her husband to the war and her child to polio. And then she suffered indignation at the hands of a stranger."

"Indignation?"

"My sister was raped, and this child the product. She gave life to her, and then I believe my sister let herself die of grief and shame."

"I'm sorry," Carter said.

"She hoped a family would want the innocent child. She knew I could not take in another—I can barely care for my four. And I carry the AIDS."

"Is there something I can do?"

She shook her head slowly and continued: "Most of these assaults you hear of are by soldiers from nearby lands—neighbor against neighbor's wife, you might say."

Carter had heard such stories.

"But not the man who hurt my sister. He was a Westerner, she told me. He came to the tent and told her he would help her son."

Carter was overwhelmed with anger and pity.

" He wore a doctor's mask over his face and a green cap over his hair—"

"Like a surgeon?" Carter reasoned.

"She could not stop him," she continued recounting. "He forced himself on her, but she told me she grabbed a key from his own pocket and _cut_ him."

And with clenched teeth she demonstrated the motion with her fist.

"She told me she made a jagged gash from here by his hair," she pointed to her own face, "to his eye."

"A jagged gash?" Carter's throat tightened.

"_Oui_—yes."

He held tightly the bed in which the tiny baby lay to keep his hand from trembling.

"From the hairline to the corner of his eye?"

"Yes. His left eye."

He gripped the bed to control his breathing.

"Angelique!" He saw her out in the main ward.

"John?" she said stepping in the storage room.

"Angelique, can you help this lady for a moment?"

Carter didn't wait to hear the answer. He flew past her and pounded through the doors of the hospital out into the early morning heat. At the bottom of the steps, he leaned over and rested his hands on his knees and fought the waves of nausea. He struggled to catch his breath, but the thick, humid Kisangani air was hardly any relief for Carter as he came to realize that a man who called himself a doctor but preyed on women and fathered a baby through violence—Damon Albrecht—was alone somewhere with Abby.

_NEXT . . . _

_Chapter 8: Sugar and Spice_


	8. Sugar & Spice

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

_**CHAPTER EIGHT: SUGAR & SPICE **_

**_Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent)._**

**_Summary: So in love—yet so willing to believe the worst of each other and to see the worst in themselves. How did they get this way? Finally, the answers are revealed. Meanwhile, an unsuspecting Abby is traveling with Dr. Damon Albrecht, and a distressed Carter plans to take her safety into his own hands._**

**_Disclaimer: Of course, I have no rights to the ER characters, but I claim copyright to the story and dialogue. Thanks._**

**_Author's Note: In one sense, you can think of this chapter as a bridge to the finale. It's intense in spots and may not be the chapter you are expecting. I think the complex scene and time changes in this chapter would work well on the screen, but writing them for a reading audience was tricky. Take your time. A powerful love is rich in layers._**

**_Thanks to those who've taken a moment to share deeper feelings about the story and also to those who've left a quick note. It's all of you who amaze me, in that you feel all the emotions and notice all the details. Thank you._**

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_**WHEN YOU ARE** a child, your smiles and giggles get stored in your heart, and when you grow up, they're given out as love. Abby had few smiles and even fewer giggles in childhood, so her reservoir of love was very small. When you have little to give, you get little in return—at least it feels that way. Thus, relationships for Abby were very hard._

_But it wasn't always that way . . . _

_Abby knew there was something strange about her mother: carefree and exuberant one day, ornery and moody the next. Abby loved Maggie, and she knew her mother loved her also, but Maggie's unpredictability made Abby fearful._

_Abby's father felt it, too. For as long as she could remember, her dad seemed to avoid her mother. It wasn't until years later that Abby theorized her father kept company with other women on the nights he came home late or when he took sudden "business trips."_

_However, when Abby and her brother Eric were tiny, their father represented a consistent source of love and security. For Abby, he was something to hold onto. Her father inspired her, and as a five-year-old, Abby was sure she was pretty and special._

"_Ouch!"_

_She heard her father yell from the backyard of their small, white three-bedroom home in a working-class neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota. Abby ran around to the back of the house and saw her father with an aging power lawnmower turned over on his lap. He was trying to clean sopping-wet grass from the blades. But now he held onto a finger from which a trail of blood began to drip. _

"_Abby, honey," he said when he saw her. "Get your mother and tell her to bring the first-aid kit."_

"_Mommy!" She called as she ran to the house, her light-brown hair flapping behind her, her dirty, bare feet impervious to the rocks hidden in the overgrown lawn. "Mommy, Daddy needs—"_

_She stopped short when she found her mother passed out on the sofa with an empty bottle of tequila on the floor just beneath her outstretched hand._

"_Mommy?" Abby said, poking her tentatively in the ribs._

"_Abby, hurry up!" She heard her father yell. Abby quickly picked up the bottle and put it in the garbage can in the kitchen. She ran into her baby brother's room, found him peacefully asleep in his crib, and snatched the tiny blanket from over him. She grabbed the first-aid kit from under the bathroom sink, ran back to the living room, and tossed the blanket over her mother. She ran outside yelling, "Coming!"_

"_No, sweetie, I can't do it myself. It's my right hand. Get your mother."_

"_Ummm, Mommy's sleeping. She said she has a headache."_

"_Sleeping, huh?"_

"_Yes," Abby said without looking in his eye. "She said I could help you. Look, Daddy, I can."_

_Little Abby unwrapped a moist towelette and wiped the wound clean. She looked it over and declared she didn't think it was that bad. She picked up an aerosol can of antibacterial spray and shook it the way she had seen her mother do before, only she needed two hands and her whole body to do it. Her father hid a smile watching her hard at work. She carefully aimed the spray at his wound._

"_Ouch, it stings," her father said._

"_I'm sorry!" She blew on his finger over and over again to soothe the pain. Then she carefully unfolded a little bandage and placed it on the cut._

"_See, Daddy. It's fine."_

_He looked at her handiwork._

"_That's my girl." He smiled at her, and Abby's heart sprang from her chest._

"_My teacher said I'd be a good nurse," she declared proudly as she began to put the supplies back in the kit._

"_Yes, you'd be a good nurse, but you'd be a great doctor, pretty girl. You just need to do well in Science."_

_She loved how he made her feel—like she could accomplish anything. She reached up and kissed him. He folded her in his arms and tickled her belly, and she giggled._

_It was one of the few times in her life._

"WE'VE BEEN CIRCLING for an hour," Albrecht moaned. "How long are they going to keep us up here?"

"Huh?" Abby said from deep inside her head.

"The plane—we've been circling Paris for almost an hour. Can't you tell we've been going in circles?"

"I guess I didn't notice. I feel that way a lot," she half-joked.

"The fog's lifted—what's going on?" he said, his temper showing. "It's making me bloody sick, I tell you. The only thing helping is the bourbon."

"You succumbed," Abby observed.

"How about you? You look like you need it more than I do. Can I tempt you?"

_No, don't do it. Don't do it. _

"No, I'm fine."

But she wasn't.

CARTER SAT WITH his head back in the passenger seat of the shiny, white pickup truck. He stared straight ahead, though his sunglasses didn't make it obvious. His arm rested on the truck's open window. A slight shadow of beard growth from his all-nighter in the trauma room at the Kisangani hospital covered his hard-set jaw. He had one thing on his mind—_Abby_.

It was hard for Carter to compose himself when he realized that Damon Albrecht was the vicious man who attacked a woman from the refugee camps. He raped her and left her pregnant, though his victim managed to scar him with a key from his own pocket. Abby left Kisangani yesterday evening with Albrecht and traveled with him through the night. The thought took the breath from Carter's body—even more than the fact that she left angry over a misunderstanding involving, of all things, a pink bra belonging to Debbie, a Red Cross worker. He could deal with Abby's anger; he just wanted her safe.

"John!" Angelique had called to him from the top of the wooden steps when she saw him pale and breathing heavily outside the hospital. "Everything okay?"

"I've got to go," he called up to her as he headed for his bungalow. "I'm sorry. I'll explain everything—I'll call you from the States. I'll be back to help, but I've got to go."

Carter emptied his room quickly, tossed his duffel bag over his shoulder, and went to find the hospital driver and his van.

It was Bendu Nyobi he found instead.

"Dr. Carter."

Bendu was polishing a brand-new white pickup truck. He wore a small bandage on his forehead, a remnant of the plane crash days before.

"Bendu!" Carter detoured over to him with an outstretched hand. "I meant to find you. I wanted to thank you for everything."

"Thank me?"

"I'm leaving. I'm looking for the hospital van right now. I have to get to the airport. I know there is an 8 o'clock flight to Kinshasa."

"They took the van to pick up a new doctor at the airport," Bendu explained. "Even so, it's almost 7 o'clock. How do you propose—"

"This yours?" Carter said, eyeing the rig.

"No, a business partner brought it by—no more plane, you know."

"Bendu, it's an emergency. Can you—"

"Hop in."

They'd been driving in silence now for almost twenty minutes. Finally, Bendu spoke: "So, Abby the nurse . . . she is _the_ Abby, huh? The one with the brother?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "The one with the brother."

_**BOBBY CARTER DIED.** They knew he would. In those days, leukemia was a frightening enemy, and no one thought to fight it much—because no one expected to win. Despite the best doctors that money could buy—and the Carter family fortune bought many—Bobby lost the battle. _

_Though his mother insisted he would recover, Bobby was resigned to his fate. Before he died, he talked with his brother John and assigned him the task of making their mother happy, helping her to forget, ensuring she wouldn't be sad. But it would prove to be a monumental task for the boy, who didn't know his mother ran away from pain, retreated into her own cocoon, and wouldn't let anyone in—even a lonely, brotherless boy. And his father, too weak to fight her, mostly stayed behind in the wood-paneled library in the company of a 20-year-old Scotch._

"A MAN ALONE with his thoughts is a lonely man indeed," Bendu said to coax Carter into talking.

Bendu never failed with his words.

"I did something stupid," Carter confessed.

"Again?"

Bendu caught Carter from the corner of his eye and winked, and then he let out his characteristic roar of laughter. Carter smiled and breathed easier for a moment and proceeded to tell him the whole story.

He told him of Abby coming to the Congo and caring for the orphaned baby. He told of seeing her in the firefight and getting to her with Bendu's help. He described the loss of the baby and what it meant to Abby. He shared how he soothed her in his room and how they found each other once more, only to have it fall apart because of Debbie's garment and his moment of confusion.

Then he told him of the baby's mother and Albrecht and his hidden dark side. Carter's hands trembled, and Bendu drove faster.

"We need to get you to that plane," Bendu said with anxiety in his voice. "If you don't make it, you won't catch the connection in Kinshasa to Paris."

"As soon as I get to Paris I need to catch a connection to Chicago . . ."

"Chicago?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"_What?"_

"My friend, a man like that would certainly like to spend some time in Paris with a pretty lady, don't you think?"

"Can't you go any faster?"

Bendu roared the engine.

Carter picked up his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"I don't know," Carter said. "French police . . . Interpol."

"Dr. Carter, the only victim of this man that you know of is dead. So is the baby he produced. The only evidence came from a woman whose name you do not know who lives in a refugee camp of thousands—"

"Well, what am I supposed to _do_?" Carter exploded in frustration. He tucked his phone in his shirt pocket, ran his hand through his hair, and slammed his fist on the door of the truck.

"Go get her, Dr. Carter."

Carter was quiet while his pulse fell back to normal. And then, with pain in his voice, he said quietly: "What do I do when I find her?"

"You do whatever you have to do."

"What if she doesn't believe me?"

"You do whatever you have to do."

"What if he already—"

"Whatever . . . you have . . . to do."

_ERIC'S PLANE WAS missing. Carter called Abby when he arrived for vacation in the Central American country of Belize, and she told him what she knew—that it had gone off radar. He panicked for her and knew immediately what he had to do._

_There was a knock at his hotel room door. _

"_Carter?" said a voice._

_The knocking turned into banging._

"_Carter!"_

"_Carter, come on, man! Pick up the pace!" said another voice._

_Carter was deep in thought as he returned his garments to his suitcase, but the pounding brought him to the present. He opened the door. Behind it stood two young men very much like Carter—young, educated professionals from privileged backgrounds. They met once a year to go scuba diving at various tropical locales around the world. Other than the fraternity they shared in college, Carter didn't have much in common with them any longer, and it seemed like less and less each year._

_He left the door open for them and went back to packing._

"_P.J. and I are ready to do a couple this afternoon," said Kenny, a tall dark-haired young man with a deep tan—clearly no stranger to a beach._

"_Hold on, what are you doing?" said P.J., a stockier, shirtless blond._

"_Packing up," Carter answered. "I'm headed back."_

"_Whoa! Are you crazy? You just got here!" P.J. responded._

"_I have to head back. Abby's brother—he's missing. He was in a small plane—"_

"_Oh man, that's tough," Kenny sympathized. "He crashed?"_

"_I don't know. He went off radar. That's all they know."_

"_Well, he could have set it down somewhere—it could be a lot things," Kenny reasoned._

"_I know, but I want to go back," Carter said. "Sorry guys."_

"_Carter, come on! We just got here," P.J. pleaded. "This is our big trip, remember? Once a year, wherever we are in the world, we meet for a dive. Try a couple of dives and call again. I bet they find him by then."_

"_Yeah, Carter, try out the equipment and then call."_

_The three men were joined by a fourth who stepped into the room through the still-open door._

"_What's going on?" asked Tim, a tall brown-haired young man with a well-trimmed reddish beard that made him look more rugged than his soft features would suggest._

"_Tim, talk some sense into this guy. We just got here, and he's already heading back," P.J. whined. _

"_What's up, John?" Tim asked Carter, who continued to put garments into the open bag on the bed._

"_It's Abby—her brother's missing in his Cessna. I think I should be there if she hears any news."_

_P.J. reached into Carter's bag and grabbed balls of rolled-up socks. He hopped on Carter's bed, bag and all, and began to juggle them. "All I can say, Carter, is she must be some good f—"_

"_Hey! That's my girlfriend you're talking about!" Carter picked up his bag from the bed and dropped it down hard on the floor._

"_Friend," he said, covering himself. " I was going to say 'friend' okay? Geesh, Carter." _

"_All right, break it up," Tim said. "You guys get out of here, okay? I want to talk to Carter."_

_Kenny and P.J. reluctantly filed out of the room, but before he closed the door, P.J. said, "Knock some sense into him, will you?" _

"_Come on, let's go," Kenny said from out in the hall, and they shut the door behind them._

_When it was quiet, Carter went back to packing, and Tim spoke: "Do you have any details?"_

"_No."_

"_Did you speak to Abby?"_

"_A few minutes ago."_

"_She asked you to come back?"_

"_No—she asked me not to. She doesn't want to ruin my vacation in case he turns up in an hour." _

"_She's right, you know?"_

"_Tim, if it were your wife's brother, would you go back?"_

"_If it were my wife's brother, she'd come down and drag me back herself."_

_They chuckled, and it broke the tension._

"_Well, Abby's not like that. It took a lot for her to even tell me. I think she needs . . . someone . . . to be with her," Carter said, hoping that his intuition was right and that he was that someone. "I'm sorry, Tim. I can dive another time."_

"_Safe trip, Carter."_

"_What about Ken and P.J.?"_

"_I'll take care of those goons. Go take care of Abby."_

"_Thanks."_

_They shook hands, and Tim playfully slapped Carter on the side of the arm. _

"_Man, my wife was right."_

"_Right about what?"_

_Chuckling, Tim opened the door, but before he closed it, he leaned in with a mischievous smile and said, "She told me, 'Tim, Carter's in looooove.'"_

_Carter smiled. He was._

THE PICKUP TRUCK slowed down and snatched Carter from a dark place in his mind. Up ahead, a young boy, 10 or 11 years old, waved his arms frantically, and Bendu pressed on the brake.

"What are you doing?" Carter yelled. "We're never going to make it!"

"The boy has something to say," Bendu said matter of factly. He leaned his head out of the window, and the boy spoke to him.

"Go that way! Go that way!" he said pointing to a turnoff onto a dirt road that led up a steep hill to a long, high ridge that ran parallel to the main road.

Bendu eyed the road straight ahead versus the unpaved turnoff.

"Forget it!" Carter yelled. He was beginning to panic. "Let's go! Move!"

Bendu thought for a brief moment and then turned the vehicle sharply to the right and sped up the hilly, rough path.

"Are you crazy?" Carter shouted and pounded his fist on the door of the truck. "What are you doing? The road ahead was fine!"

"He said to go this way," Bendu said.

"He's just a kid!"

"Sometimes people should listen to children."

"This is insane," Carter said and slapped his hand against his forehead.

They bounced along the steep incline and then turned onto the high ridge and rolled along the dirt road. Within a mile, a lineup of cars appeared below on the parallel main road.

"Roadblock," Bendu explained.

"What are they checking for?"

"Who knows? But whatever it is, these poor fellows didn't fare well."

Below at the checkpoint, soldiers with pistols pulled a driver and a passenger from a blue van. They ordered them onto their knees, pressed the guns to their foreheads, and screamed questions in French.

"Oh my God," Carter whispered.

"Don't look, Dr. Carter."

The crack of a firing pistol echoed off the high ridge and bounced the sound for miles around. The driver on his knees slunk to the ground.

Carter's hands shook and his eyes grew wide. He touched his fingertip to his forehead as he remembered the feeling of hot gunmetal mixed with fear.

"I said not to look," Bendu reminded him.

ABBY LIFTED THE aircraft window shade and stared out.

"Either we're really landing this time or we're in big trouble," she announced.

"Why?" Albrecht asked without batting an eye.

"Well, I see the runway, and we're getting close to it really fast."

He smiled at her. "I'm sure we're landing."

"Do you have a connecting flight?"

"No, I'll take the train to Vaduz, but I'm going to stay in Paris a little while."

"Really? You sounded anxious to get home."

"I changed my mind."

"Oh."

"And since I'll be in Paris anyway, I hope you'll allow me to keep you company today while you wait for your flight home."

"No, that's all right. The airport is no place to spend a beautiful day."

"I have no intention of spending the day in the airport. I intend to show you Paris."

"No, really—"

"I insist."

"Thank you, but I'd rather hang around the airport in case I can get on an earlier flight."

"And what will you do in the airport all day by yourself?"

"Crossword puzzles."

"Nonsense. I won't listen to any arguments."

_**ABBY HEARD HER** parents fighting many nights. Sometimes, Maggie screamed with unexplained rage. Sometimes she roared with uncontrollable laughter. Many times, it was her father yelling while Maggie sat with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands as she agreed with him that she was guilty of all the horrible things of which he accused her. Abby would sometimes watch from the top of the stairs. Though her mother frightened her, Abby pitied her and instinct made her want to comfort her. But Abby was afraid of what her father would think and didn't want to weaken his love for her. She needed him, so she stayed quiet._

_The day it happened started out better than most days. Maggie had straightened up the house, made cupcakes for the school bake sale, and gave makeovers to the other moms as they waited for customers for the luscious snacks. _

_That morning, Abby left for school as content as any seven-year-old could be on report card day. She had tried harder this semester than any before, though being only in second grade, she hadn't much to compare it to. When Sister Marguerite handed Abby her report card, she held the envelope in her hand for a long time and stared at her name, "Abigail Wyczenski," before tearing it open. _

_And then she saw it—Science: A+. Her heart practically burst from her chest. When the clock struck 3 p.m., the doors of the school flew open, and all the children spilled out, including Abby, who ran home all the way. It was Friday. Mr. Wyczenski came home early on Fridays. When she got there, she thought Maggie might be doing laundry and her father would be playing with Eric, now a robust pre-schooler. She would call them all into the living room and maybe tease them with her news before revealing the beautiful letter "A" followed by a "plus"—the greatest accomplishment of her very short life._

_Abby ran down the street, her jacket flapping open in the frosty November wind, her brown hair flying behind her. The pleats of her uniform danced against her blue tights. However, as she turned her corner, she slowed her pace a bit. There was something strange about her house. The door to the garage was open. She slowed to a jog and then to a walk when she saw her father's car was not there._

_She headed up the short walkway to her house and opened the door. The folding table on which she'd often lay her books was gone, as was the stereo that sat on it._

_From the small den that Maggie mysteriously called her "office," Abby heard the distinct sound of cartoons. She walked in, and there she saw Eric. He stood on a chair, his face and hands up against a 13-inch, black-and-white television._

"_No maw cowors," he announced to Abby, shaking his head._

"_No more colors?" She translated his poorly formed pre-school consonants better than either of her parents._

"_On da tewebijun," he said pointing to the screen._

"_Where's the other television—the color one?"_

"_Da-ee tewk it."_

"_Daddy took it? Took it where?"_

_He shrugged his shoulders._

"_Where's Mommy?"_

_His little fingers pointed up._

_She put her books down and lifted Eric from the chair._

_As a petite seven-year-old, the strapping toddler was more than half her size. But he let her lift him, his little legs dragging on the floor, and she sat him on the old, ripped couch they kept in the little "office."_

"_You're too close, you'll ruin your eyes."_

_She left Eric on the couch, walked slowly up to her parents' bedroom, and opened the door. The pungent smell of alcohol hit her in the face. The curtains were closed, and it was dark and difficult to see, but she could make out Maggie, unmoving, on the bed._

_Abby had seen this before—time and time again. Just last week, her mother arrived home with many pots of acrylic paint. She gave Abby and Eric brushes, and they painted designs and smiling faces all over the walls. When her father came home, he roared that he'd spent good money on the wood paneling and that he couldn't take Maggie's careless behavior anymore. Her mother just giggled uncontrollably, and Abby and Eric ran to their rooms. The giggling was always followed by weeks where Maggie would do nothing but sleep in the dark and drink from bottles. During those times, Abby's father would sleep on the couch—if he came home at all. Abby would try to cook and clean and make things seem normal for him. She worked hard at it. The worse things got, the harder she worked._

_She should have seen this day coming._

"_Mommy?"_

_She shook her._

"_Mom?"_

"_Abby," Maggie whispered without opening her eyes._

"_Mommy, where's Daddy?"_

"_Let him go, Abby."_

"_Where did he go?"_

"_He couldn't take it. He's sick of me, sick of all of it . . . I don't blame him."_

_Abby walked to the bedroom window and leaned her chin on the sill._

"_He'll come back, Mommy."_

"_He's not coming back, Abby."_

"_He didn't even say good-bye to me. He'll come back."_

"_Oh, Abby . . ."_

"_He'll miss us."_

"_He'll find somebody else. They always do."_

THE PLANE EMPTIED out, and Albrecht and Abby were among the last to disembark.

"I'm starving," he said. "Aren't you hungry?"

In truth, she had eaten very little during her time in the Congo and even less over the last day or so. However, her appetite caught up with her, and she was quite ready to eat.

"Yes, there must be a vending machine around here."

"Vending machine? Nonsense. Let's grab breakfast at my hotel."

"Your . . . _hotel_?"

"Yes, there is a wonderful restaurant—"

"I'd really rather—"

"Please."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"Okay, forget the hotel. How about a quick bite at this lovely café I know."

"Well . . . "

"I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"Ummm . . ."

"Please, Abigail, I'll never forgive myself if I don't show you a bit of Paris while you're here."

"Okay." She excused herself and went to find a restroom.

THE DIRT RIDGE eventually met up with the main road to the airport, and Bendu floored the gas pedal to race Carter to the crucial Kinshasa flight. Carter perspired, breathed heavily, and sat at the edge of the truck seat.

"_Come on, come on_," Carter mouthed in silent meditation, his knees bouncing nervously. As Bendu turned into the airport, the line of cars ahead of him was staggering.

"Go, Dr. Carter, go!"

Carter flung open the door of the crawling truck and dodged his way through rows of cars to get into the terminal. Inside, he ran to the information desk, chest heaving, and breathlessly said, "Kinshasa."

The man pointed to a gate, where the door was already closed, and the plane could be seen rising to the sky at a forty-five degree angle to the ground—the ground on which Carter still stood.

Bendu ran in behind him. "Dr. Carter, did you—"

Carter shook his head as he panted heavily. His eyes filled with tears of anxiety. He leaned against the window, and as the plane behind him flew higher, Carter slid down the glass until he was sitting on his heels. He flung his head backward and banged it against the window.

"Bendu, I need to get there," he said as he began to catch his breath.

"You can get there tomorrow—"

"No, I need to go today."

"Dr. Carter—"

"Damn it, I need to get there today!"

Bendu walked slowly over to Carter and offered his hand to help him stand up.

"Dr. Carter, I hope I don't live to regret this, but I know this man . . ."

_**ON THE DAY** of Bobby's funeral, 11-year-old John Carter looked handsome in his dark suit. He stood between his father and grandfather, his grandmother and mother flanking them. He watched as they put Bobby's body in the ground and shuddered with fear. He wanted to cry, but he didn't._

"_Don't be a baby and cry, Johnny. You'll make mom sad," his brother warned concerning his own burial._

_But Young John cried even at the prospect, though he agreed, "I won't." _

"_You're doing it now!"_

"_No, I'm not."_

"_Yes, you are!"_

"_No, I'm not!"_

"_Don't be a baby."_

"_I'm not a baby!"_

_They sparred, but Young John really wanted to hug his brother and never let go. Later, they did._

_He loved Bobby._

_At his funeral, Young John's stone face was rewarded by his father and grandfather. _

"_That's it, Johnny. Act like a man."_

_And so he stood, stoic, burying his tears inside._

THE MAN BENDU knew was a pilot who had his own plane. It was not just any plane—it was a Gulfstream V, a very fast, long-range jet that could get Carter from right there in Kisangani directly to Paris that very afternoon.

"He flies for foreign dignitaries—" Bendu explained.

"Or _dictators_, you mean?" Carter clarified.

"Whoever can pay him—that's a pretty particular group."

"Call him."

"But Dr. Carter, do you know what kind of money we're talking about?"

"Call Bendu, please."

"Dr. Carter—"

"Please."

"Dr. Carter, he'll want tens of thousands—"

"Call him."

Bendu took his cell phone, stepped out of the terminal, and called. When he returned, he reported the results of his negotiations.

"He said he could have you in Paris by 3 o'clock."

"Good."

"He wants $75,000 U.S.," and he roared with laughter.

"Tell him _yes_."

"What?" Bendu eyes nearly flew from his head.

"Tell him yes . . . please, Bendu."

"Dr. Carter—"

"Please."

THE EARLY HOUR made traffic around the restroom light. At the mirror, Abby washed her hands. For the first time since she left Africa, she had a moment alone to digest what happened: They were kissing, and touching, and engaging in the intimate talk that for them always preceded sex. And then it was shattered by her discovery that he'd been with another woman. Abby wanted to hate him, but she missed him. She stared in the mirror a long time and found herself reaching for her neck and running her finger in a semi-circle tracing the path of his ring of kisses. She remembered the feeling of his lips on her neck—not just the feeling but the _sound_. It was so quiet in his bungalow—no traffic or sirens. Just his mouth on her skin and the tiny noise it made when he'd slowly draw his lips away from her neck and press them down again an inch away.

"Abigail."

The sound of her name made her jump.

"Are you okay?" Albrecht stood mere feet away from her—inside the women's restroom.

Her heart jumped from the start he gave her, and she rubbed her face to calm the redness that her memories caused.

"I'm fine."

He stepped closer.

"I was just making sure."

"I'm okay, really."

She busied herself at the sink.

"Oh, see now I have frightened you. I'm sorry."

"No, I just . . . I didn't expect anybody . . . in here . . . in the Ladies' Room . . . with me." She turned on the faucet and moistened a paper towel and pressed it to her burning cheeks.

"Is there anything I can do?" He stepped closer.

"No, I'll just be another minute. You can wait—."

"_Monsieur!"_

Before she could say the word "outside," the shrieks of an outraged woman came from the threshold, and Albrecht retreated with his hands in the air. Abby laughed, which calmed her racing heart. She forced the thoughts of Carter from her head, and dried her hands.

_**WHILE MAGGIE SLEPT**, Abby looked out the window of her parents' bedroom with her nose pressed against the cold glass. She watched and waited for the familiar headlights of her father's car to pull into the driveway. Just as evening fell, Eric appeared in the doorway._

"_Mommy?"_

"_Shhhh!" Abby said. "Leave her alone." And she resumed her position._

_Eric came over to his sister and leaned his head against her arm and tugged at her school uniform._

"_Abby, I'm hungwy."_

"_It's okay, Eric. I am, too."_

_She walked over to Maggie, leaned close to her, and touched her face. _

"_Mommy?"_

_No response._

"_Mom, Eric and I are hungry. It's dinner time . . . Mom?"_

_Still Maggie did not respond._

"_Come on, Eric."_

_She took the boy by the hand and led him to the kitchen. Abby stood on a chair and opened the cupboards one by one, yet found nothing that she could prepare that would make a decent meal or snack: flour, iced tea mix, tomato paste. In the refrigerator, she found a ketchup bottle, an old roast beef sandwich, and a half-empty six-pack of beer. Every dish in the house was in the sink._

_From her perch on the chair, Abby could see out the window to the Randalls' backyard. She could see Mrs. Randall and her grandson, a boy two or three years older than Abby who visited from time to time. The Randalls were barbecuing despite the crisp fall evening. It smelled good to her hungry belly. _

"_Get me your jacket," Abby ordered Eric. She hopped off the chair and put on her own coat, which she had left by the front door. _

"_Come with me and don't say anything. Promise?" she said to her little brother as she put on his jacket._

"_Don't say what?"_

"_Don't talk!"_

_The two children went outside and around to the back of their house. Abby climbed the short wooden fence that separated the Wyczenski yard from the Randalls' and threw her legs over, sitting on top. Eric climbed up just enough for his face to look over, and he clung to the fence with two hands._

"_Hi, Mrs. Randall," Abby said._

"_Hello, Abby. How are you, honey?"_

"_I'm fine."_

"_Hello, Eric," Mrs. Randall directed to the boy. "And how are you today?" _

_Eric remained silent per Abby's orders. _

"_He's fine, too." Abby answered for him._

"_How're your mom and dad?"_

"_They're fine," Abby said. "They're at a party."_

"_When are Mommy and Da-ee coming back?" Eric inquired, suddenly feeling out of the loop._

"_Shhhh!" Abby demanded._

"_A party?" said Mrs. Randall._

"_A fancy party," Abby elaborated._

"_They went to a party and left you home alone?"_

_Mr. Randall came to the back door at the sound of the conversation and caught Mrs. Randall's eye._

_Sensing skepticism, Abby fibbed. "Oh, no. The babysitter is inside doing her homework."_

_Abby stared at the barbecue, while the Randalls' grandson held the platter of long, empty buns for the hot dogs, which were just about finished._

"_Well, say hello to your parents for me, okay?" said Mrs. Randall. She took the platter from the boy and filled the buns one by one as Abby's mouth watered. _

_The young boy looked carefully at Abby, whose little legs hung over the fence, and their eyes met. _

_He called to Mrs. Randall as she opened the back door to the house._

"_Grandma?"_

_He signaled her to lean down to him, and he cupped his hands over her ear. Mrs. Randall watched Abby as the boy whispered to her, and Abby got frightened._

"_Come on, Eric. Let's go!" she said and threw her leg back over the fence._

"_Abby, sweetheart," Mrs. Randall said before she could climb down. "Would you like a hot dog?"_

"_No thanks. I'll ruin my appetite. My dad's bringing us food back from the party."_

"_Abigail, honey, here's one for you and for your brother—just until they get home, okay?"_

"_Well . . . okay, but . . . ummmm . . . could we have one for our babysitter? It wouldn't be polite to eat in front of her."_

_From the other side of the screened back door, Mr. Randall stood in shadows. He shook his head sadly and walked away._

"_Of course, you can, pumpkin." Mrs. Randall gave Abby a paper plate with three hot dogs, which Abby handed to Eric as she prepared to climb down. As she threw her other leg over the fence, Abby's eyes met the boy's again. _

"_I'll be inside in a minute, Grandma," he said._

_His eyes were round, brown, and warm with kindness. In them, Abby could see he knew her secret. He smiled at her, but Abby turned away._

_She had learned her first lesson in shame. _

DESPITE THE BRIGHT sunshine, the Paris air was cool, and Abby considered snatching her light jacket from out of her bag. Their taxi stopped on a lovely Paris side street, and they got out in front of a corner establishment with lovely blue shudders surrounding pretty paned windows and a carved yellow door that was shut tight.

"Of all the bad luck. I am so sorry, Abigail. I bet you would have loved this place. Belgian waffles with warm fruit syrup, homemade chocolate croissants . . ."

Her stomach growled.

"When was the last time you were here?" she asked.

"Just recently."

"Really? It looks like it's been closed for months—or even years," Abby said as she peeked through the window. She saw layers of dust and even a cobweb or two. "Maybe they're just bad housekeepers."

"Nobody could be that messy," Albrecht countered.

"You've never seen my apartment."

He laughed and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Look, my hotel is just down the block. Why don't we just eat there? The food is good, and I know the people."

"Your _hotel_?"

"The hotel _restaurant_."

"Well, I'm starving, so we'd better go somewhere."

_ABBY, WHERE ARE you? What are you doing? Are you okay?_ The questions rolled through Carter's mind and hurt his stomach as he sat in seat No. 15. He was the only traveler on the luxurious 20-passenger airliner.

"Dr. Carter," said a voice over a loudspeaker. It came from the cockpit. "There's food in the refrigerator near the restrooms."

"Thanks," Carter said to the air.

"We know you have a lot of choices when you travel, but thank you for flying my airline." The voice laughed.

It made Carter uncomfortable.

_**AFTER BOBBY'S FUNERAL**, swarms of people, mostly business associates of John Carter Sr., went back to the Carter Family mansion for the mournful reception. Black-clad adults with plates of canapés and martini glasses swarmed the premises, and Young John Carter wove his way through them invisibly. He stopped on occasion to look at a photo of his brother on a table or credenza, but he always found himself standing before the large oil painting of himself with Bobby commissioned by his grandfather a few years back. _

_Later, when all the guests had left the Carter family home, it became clear that life for the 11-year-old would never be the same. _

_He found his father hiding in the library. Jack Carter sat in a high-back chair over which young John could not see—only his hand was visible from the arm of the chair. It held a snifter of brandy. _

"_Dad?"_

"_Johnny, go see if your mother is packed."_

"_Packed? Where are we going?"_

"_Your mother and I are going to Europe this evening."_

"_I don't have to go to school?"_

"_No, Johnny—"_

"_I don't?"_

"_No, Johnny, you don't understand. Your mother and I are going . . . alone."_

"_But Dad—"_

"_Johnny, go to your mother."_

_Young John slinked out the door and headed upstairs. He knocked softly at the door to the room his parents used at the mansion._

"_Mom?"_

"_Johnny!" He jumped when he heard the voice of Margaret, the head housekeeper, from behind him. "Don't be bothering your mother now. She's doesn't want to be disturbed."_

"_But it's just me, and my father wants to know—"_

"_She said nobody—that includes you and your father. Run and play now. And don't dirty that suit or you'll hear it from your grandmother, I'm sure."_

_Shortly after, Eleanor Carter emerged from her room and met Jack at the bottom of the steps. Henry the butler brought the bags to the car, and Young John stood on the last stair._

"_Why can't I go?" he asked, fighting the quiver in his lip._

_His mother looked at him, shook her head, and rested a handkerchief against her nose._

"_Be a man, son," his father advised._

"_Mom—"_

_They closed the door behind them, leaving him alone in the darkened foyer._

_He stepped down the final stair and walked over to the hall table over which the portrait of himself and Bobby hung. He rested his arms on the hall table and stared at his brother's smile until he dropped his head on his arms. The little man cried._

_He looked up, shoulders shivering, salty tears on his young face and said to his brother. "I'm not a baby."_

_He wiped his eyes and went upstairs just in time to see the door closing on his grandparents' chambers._

"_Gamma?"_

"_Your grandmother is not feeling well, Johnny," his grandfather said as he escorted his wife into the room. "It's been a rough day for her. Why don't you get Margaret to give you some ice cream in the kitchen?"_

_And he closed the door behind them._

_Handsome Young John sat at the top of the dark stairs in his dark suit and made helicopter noises with his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his young cousin on the first floor by the front door of the mansion._

"_Chase!"_

_He stood up on the step._

"_Chase!"_

_The other boy looked up as his mother struggled to put a sweater on him._

"_Chase, what are you doing?" Young John said._

"_I gotta go home. They're sending me back to school tomorrow. What are you doing?"_

"_Nothing," Johnny answered._

_The woman grabbed Chase by the hand and yelled up the stairs._

"_Bye-bye, Johnny. You take care of your mother now. She is going to need all the help she can get. Be strong for her, okay?"_

"_Yes ma'am."_

_Once they left, the mansion was empty but for the servants, the sleeping senior Carters, and Young John. The house was huge and dark and quiet. Johnny put his head in his lap and sat in the stillness—alone._

_Downstairs, he could see a sliver of light as a door opened. Sounds from inside a room slipped out._

_A woman emerged from behind the door. She was one of the maids, a young woman about 25 years old. She looked up and saw Young John at the top of the stairs. He had seen her many times before but almost didn't recognize her: Instead of her uniform, she wore a bathrobe, and instead of her usual hair net, her long, blond locks lay free. _

"_Hi, Johnny."_

"_Hi," he said and picked at the sole of his shoe._

"_What are you doing?" she said as she moved closer to the staircase._

"_Nothing," the boy said as he continued to pick at some dried mud on his loafer._

"_Everybody's gone?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_Long day, huh?" she said as she reached the bottom step. "I'm sorry about your brother. You must miss him."_

_He looked up at her. She was the first one all day to ask how he felt about losing Bobby. _

"_It's late," she said. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"_

"_It's only 9:00," he answered. "Plus, I can do whatever I want," he said defensively._

"_Of course, you can. Look at you—you're practically all grown up, aren't you?"_

_He got a funny feeling as she said that—a tingly feeling—but it frightened him, and he didn't answer._

"_Do you want some company, Johnny?" she said, running her hand slowly up the banister and down again. _

_He shrugged his shoulders, demonstrating his indifference._

"_How about television? Do you like to watch television?"_

"_Yeah, I have my own TV in my room," he answered._

"_Me, too. Do you want to watch TV with me?"_

_His eyes quickly scanned the dark house, stopping briefly at the door to his parents' room, which lay empty now._

"_Okay, I guess."_

_He walked down the stairs and followed her into her room. _

_That night, she let her bathrobe lay open as they watched television. And the next night he visited her again, but this time she taught him things about her body and his. He may have liked the things she showed him, but mostly, he liked not being alone._

_She called him a man that night–just like his father did, just like his grandfather did. _

_Only they forgot that Johnny was just a boy—a very lonely boy._

_Years later, it would be Abby who embraced the boy in him as much as the man. She allowed him to be scared and vulnerable, which in turn made him strong and powerful. She was his friend and companion, and their friendship was laced with love and spiced with sex and cemented with respect and admiration._

_She was his family._

_One day, he would give her a ring to prove it._

CARTER LEANED HIS forehead against the window of the plane and stared at the ground as if it would get him to Paris faster.

"Hello! Hey!" Carter yelled to the air, hoping the pilot would hear.

Over the loudspeaker, his host responded. "Do you need something, Dr. Carter?"

"Do you have a telephone on this plane?"

"Lift the arm of the seat."

"Which seat?"

"Any seat."

In a compartment by each seat was high-powered satellite phone. He dialed the ER at County.

"ER, may I help you?"

"Susan?"

"Carter! Oh my God, where have you been? Are you okay? Is Abby with you?"

"I guess that means you haven't heard from her." He started breathing faster.

"She left me a message last week from the airport in Paris saying she wasn't coming back right away and I should tell Weaver not to be pissed. But I never heard anything since. I've been going crazy! Did she find you?"

"Yeah, she found me." His voice was slow, deliberate, and weak. He was worried—no, terrified—and he missed her so much.

"Carter, is everything all right?"

"Susan, I did something stupid . . . "

"Carter, what's going on?"

His emotions started to tumble toward the surface.

"Susan, I miss her."

"Carter. Where's Abby?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"She may be coming home. I don't know—"

"Carter, what happened?"

"God, Susan . . . " One hand held the phone; the other covered his eyes.

"Carter, you're scaring me. Tell me what's going on!"

"Susan, if she calls you . . ." he said, his voice cracking.

"Yeah?"

"Tell her I'm looking for her, and . . . I love her . . ."

"Carter, I'm sure everything's going to be okay—"

" . . . and I'm not going to stop until I find her."

"Carter, slow down. When did you see her last?"

"Yesterday, in Kisangani."

"Africa? Abby? How did she—"

"If anything happens to her . . ."

"Why do you think—"

". . . I don't know what I'd do."

"Carter, do you need help?"

"Susan?"

"Yeah?"

His fingers rubbed his throbbing temple. "I need her." It was practically a whisper.

"I know, Carter."

She could hear him breathing on the other end.

"Carter?"

ALBRECHT SEEMED RIGHT at home as he and Abby entered the grand lobby of _Le Tremoille_ in Paris.

"Well, this is very . . . _nice_," Abby teased, deliberately underplaying the grandeur of the place.

"Home away from home," he said. "Do you have one of those?"

"Not unless you count the car repair shop. I practically live there—"

Before she could finish her joke, Albrecht smiled at a sight behind her.

"_Bon jour_, Melisande," he said.

Abby turned around when she heard the startled gasp of a tiny girl who quickly covered her upper arms with her hands.

"_Bon jour, Doctor Damon,"_ she said in a pure, sweet French voice.

"How are you today, _cherie_?" Albrecht asked the little girl.

"_Tres bien,"_ she said, exalting her good health. "I don't want a shot, please," she returned in the same mix of English and French.

"Of course not—not today." He turned to Abby. "Abigail, this is Melisande. Her grandmother runs the hotel."

"Hello, Melisande," Abby said with the same little smile she used to greet children in the ER.

"Are you a doctor?" the child asked her.

"No, I'm a nurse."

"I don't want a shot."

"That's okay—I don't either," Abby giggled.

"See? You are safe today, _ma petite_." He turned to Abby once again. "Abigail, why don't you wait here while I check in. Think of what you want for breakfast."

"You can count on it. I'm starving."

Abby exchanged a few words with Melisande and then walked over to the large window and let her eyes scan the Parisian panorama before her. She cursed herself for wishing she were seeing it with Carter, and wondered if he even noticed she was gone. A cigarette craving overpowered her for the first time in weeks.

_**ABBY SAT ERIC** on the floor with a cup of water from the sink and the hot dog from the Randalls' barbecue. However, she ate hers with her nose pressed against the cold glass of the living room window, waiting for signs that her father would return. She saved the other hot dog in the refrigerator for Maggie, when and if she decided to venture from her room._

_Abby put Eric in pajamas, watched as he brushed his teeth, and put him on his bed. And then she did the same for herself. She lay on her bed with her report card under her pillow and prayed for her father's return exactly the way she was taught: "Our Father who art in heaven . . ." And when she was through, she wished in a way that had special meaning to her, invoking magic and spirits that seemed even more powerful to a seven-year-old. "I believe, I believe, I believe," she said in language more suited to Disneyland than St. John's Catholic Elementary._

THE RESTAURANT OF the hotel was a brightly lit room decorated with a slight Asian accent. The attentive waiter was very concerned about Abby's comfort and offered her lots of good coffee, which she graciously accepted as she and Albrecht studied their menus.

"I think I'll just have a blueberry muffin."

"You'll insult the chef. Order whatever you'd like, and let me treat you to a lovely meal."

"It's not necessary."

"Please, Abigail, I want to very much. I told you before—I don't like it when people turn down my hospitality."

She went back to her menu.

"If I want French toast in France, would I just order 'toast'?"

He looked at her over the top of his menu and pretended to be offended by her naiveté.

"I think I'll go with the Apple pancakes," she decided.

"Wonderful choice. And I'll have the eggs Florentine."

Albrecht conveyed their choices to a waiter, while Abby gazed out the window of the café with sad eyes.

"Please, Abigail, just have fun."

_CARTER TALKED OF butterflies and tornadoes and confessed he'd been drawn to her for two years, but Abby could only think of cooling off from the Chicago heat and humidity. The implicit affection and the suggested attraction made her anxious, as it was only logical that she, too, admit how long she'd been thinking about him. So rather than share, she chose to shock him by baring her body—it was much easier than baring her soul. She reached down and removed her clothes, rather than reach in and release her heart._

_And maybe—just maybe—she could have a little fun in the meantime. Fun was something she hadn't had since she was a very little girl._

_Carter didn't see her drop her pants and underwear into the sand. By the time he looked up from his explanation of Chaos Theory, she was pulling off her shirt, exposing parts of her he'd barely seen beneath him in the dark let alone in the mid-morning sun. _

_Abby dove naked into a choppy Lake Michigan right before Carter's eyes. He declared her a mighty and unpredictable tornado and then removed his clothes and joined her in the cool water._

"_I don't want to talk anymore. After two weeks cooped up in the ER, we deserve a little fun," Abby decided._

"_Like what?"_

"_Like . . ." she looked around as the waves bounced them up and down. "I'll race you to that buoy over there."_

"_You think you can beat me?" Carter challenged._

"_Yes, I beat my brother all the time. We used to practice saving my mother if she tried to drown herself in a motel pool."_

"_Well, my grandfather hired a swim instructor for me and my brother."_

"_That doesn't surprise me."_

"_He used to come to the house every other day in the summer."_

"_Really?"_

"_He was a medalist at the Pan American games."_

"_Of course, he was," Abby remarked, rolling her eyes._

"_Said I was one of his best students."_

"_Then you should have no trouble beating me to the buoy."_

"_Okay," he agreed._

"_Ready. Set. Go!"_

_She took off, but Carter didn't move. Instead he watched her slink through the water. Her hair, tinged with gold now, glistened in the sun and swam along side her when she was underwater and gilded her shoulders and back when she emerged. Her arms were smooth and strong, and her legs were shapely as he watched them kick strongly through the water. He remembered running his hands over them and winding them around him the night before in the hospital during the quarantine when they'd hoped that Chen and Pratt were asleep._

_She reached the buoy, breathing heavily, and shouted, "What are you doing? You didn't even try!"_

_She swam back to him._

_He grabbed her slippery body by the waist and pulled her close until he could feel her breasts pressed against his chest. _

_She slipped her arms around him._

"_I thought we were supposed to have fun?" she whined._

"_I am."_

"_All you did was watch me."_

"_Trust me. That was fun."_

_She pulled away and splashed him as hard as she could. Then she laughed and sped away. This time, he followed her and overtook her easily. He pulled her to him, and she wrapped her arms around him again, and they kissed. Beneath the water, she moved her legs to keep herself afloat, but he pulled them around his hips to keep her still. The giant lake lapped rhythmically over their heads as their lips met and parted only to meet again and lock in a kiss that forced her eyes closed and her mouth open. _

_Abby recognized the feeling she had in her body with her legs wrapped so tightly around him. What was unfamiliar was the irresistible urge she had to smile. She would soon learn that what she was feeling was happiness . . . caused by love. _

_She was grateful he waited the two years to be with her. _

_He would have waited one hundred and two._

"I OUGHT TO think about getting back to the airport," Abby announced after eating her meal.

"Unless I can convince you to stay."

"No, I'd better be getting back."

Abby finished her last sip of coffee and stood up to signal Albrecht that their very long meal was over. What began as a quest for breakfast had turned into a very leisurely lunch. He walked her to the front of the building where a taxi waited. He stepped off the curb and opened the door for her. Just before Abby sat in the vehicle, she turned to him.

"Look, I want to thank you for everything—"

"You're thanking me for inviting you to Africa where you had the most horrible time of your life?"

"I know it sounds funny, but it was good for me," Abby said, forcing a smile. She hiked the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. "I learned a lot about myself—and some things about other people."

Albrecht reached for her and let the fingers of his left hand caress a tendril of her hair. His right hand rested on the rooftop luggage rack of the cab.

"I'll miss you Abigail. I hope we meet again."

"Well, if you ever find yourself in Chicago . . ."

"Perhaps I ought to pay a visit to Chicago."

He looked her in the eye, and in an instant, his parted lips came toward hers. The memory of the pink bra flew by, and so Abby didn't resist his kiss. But just as quickly, it was followed by the memory of Carter's eyes and the way he looked at her and touched her when she cried over the loss of little Colette. She turned her face away.

But this time, Albrecht moved her chin toward his with his fingertips and firmly put his lips on her mouth. For a moment, she let Albrecht kiss her and enjoyed the feeling of being desired by someone who seemed to know what—or whom—he wanted.

Her lips couldn't do it. She felt them resist the intimacy of his mouth. They betrayed her by sticking together and forming a wall against Albrecht's unfamiliar lips. They wanted to kiss the only mouth they trusted. She gave in to them and pushed Albrecht away.

"Don't—" she said.

He looked at her startled—and angry.

"I'm sorry," she added quickly and brought her hands to her lips.

His face changed, and he shook the frightening expression away.

"No, Abigail, I'm sorry."

"I can't . . ."

"I understand. It's just . . . you're so lovely."

"I really have to go."

"Abigail, I—_ouch!_" Albrecht grasped his hand tightly and stepped back onto the sidewalk.

"What is it?"

"My hand."

"Let me see."

"I cut it on something."

"Let me see it."

"Wretched metal!" he exclaimed, looking at the luggage rack of the vehicle. "Cabby," he said to the driver, "You should warn your passengers that your vehicle is a deadly weapon."

"For heaven's sake, let me see," Abby insisted.

She forced his fingers to unravel from around his hand just enough to see a bleeding cut.

"Well, I can't see anything, but you sure are bleeding so you need to have it checked. Can't you stop by an emergency room?"

"No, no. I am not spending the next 20 hours in a Paris hospital."

"Is there a nurse . . . or an infirmary thing . . . in the hotel?"

"Yes, well, my suite is sort of the 'infirmary thing.' I treat the sick guests whenever I am in town."

"Oh, yes . . . the little girl."

"I gave her a dose of Compazine during a bad flu, and she has never forgiven me."

"We women are sometimes slow to forgive."

"Being right-handed, I can't very well do anything for myself."

"Well, I can help."

"I don't want to keep you. I know you are anxious to get back to the airport."

"My flight's not for hours. You may need a stitch or two," she said as she tried to get a better look at his hand.

"No, but I think a butterfly bandage will hold it."

"Come on," she said. "Let me help."

"Well, if you insist . . ."

He helped her step away from the cab, and then he closed the door, just as the driver got out and began running his hand along the luggage rack to find the offending piece of metal.

He was unable to locate it.

WHEN THE GULFSTREAM V landed in Paris, Carter tried to get a ticket to Chicago, yet no airline seemed to have a flight before evening. Susan confirmed that bad weather in Chicago has closed the airports and backed up flights. He was sure Abby ran into the same logjam, which meant she may have left the airport and gone into Paris with Albrecht—as Bendu suggested.

"_Think,"_ Carter ordered himself as he ruffled his own hair with one hand. _"Think!"_

And the answer came to him.

"_In Paris, Le Tremoille was second home to me,"_ Albrecht had said when they spoke outside of Abby's bungalow. _"Still is."_

"Hotel _Le Tremoille_," Carter said to a cab driver in front of the airport. "As fast as you can."

ALBRECHT'S ROOM WAS darker than Abby expected, but once he opened the window curtains, she could see it was a generously sized suite with a large bed and spacious seating area with a dining table and lovely black writing desk. It featured a separate dressing area through which she could see a door leading to a large bathroom.

Albrecht retrieved first-aid supplies from a black leather bag he kept near the writing desk, while Abby moistened a cloth in the bathroom.

She caught her face in the mirror and stared at her own mouth. Until Albrecht kissed her a while before, no one had touched her lips but Carter for almost two years. How ironic—Carter helped himself to the breasts of another woman, yet Albrecht's kiss made Abby feel . . . _unfaithful_.

She somberly brought the cloth to Albrecht and washed the wound.

"Well, it's not as bad as it seemed," she said without looking at him. "I don't think you need a special bandage."

She took a standard band-aid from among the supplies and stretched it onto his finger.

"I don't get a butterfly?"

"Nope, no butterfly."

_**IT WAS COLD** in Minnesota, yet Abby slept without a blanket—only her report card shared the bed with her. She was curled in a tight ball and shivering. She had kicked her covers onto the floor during a restless fit. Abby had promised herself she would not fall asleep as she awaited the return of her father—but that is a promise no small child can keep. However, she awoke quickly when she heard him come home. She knew he would. Abby grabbed her report card and hopped out of bed as if Santa Claus himself had just crawled down the chimney. She bounced down the stairs with her brown hair flapping behind her. Her prayers were answered. Her tiny face glowed. He was home._

"_Daddy, look!"_

_She stopped short two steps from the bottom. He had luggage in his hand._

"_Daddy?"_

"_Abby, honey, go back to bed." He dodged her looks, though she tried to catch his eye._

"_I haven't seen you all day."_

_He stepped in front of his luggage to block her view, but she knew. Her lip began to quiver._

"_You're going away, right?"_

_He hung his head low._

"_Abby—"_

"_But I don't want you to go!" Her eyes started to glisten with tears._

"_Abby, I—"_

"_Please, Daddy, can't you just wait . . ." _

_She came down the remaining steps and reached for his arm but he stepped away from her. One tear fell from her lid, and then the rest came down._

"_I'll call you when I get settled, baby."_

_He opened the door._

"_No, D-Daddy . . . pleeeease!" Her nose began to run and she choked on the words._

_He held it open for a minute, as if he might change his mind, but he closed it behind him._

_Behind the door stood Abby, crying hard now, unable to catch her breath, with her report card in her hand. Water from her eyes and nose smudged the ink, reducing her name to "Abigail Wycz—."_

_She stood there frozen for several minutes. And then Abby folded the report card and did with it what she did with all her dreams from that day forward. _

_She threw it away._

_She climbed up the stairs and opened the door to her parents' bedroom. The light from the hall streamed in._

"_Mommy, he left," she said, wiping her face dry with her hands._

"_Mom?" _

_She moved closer and saw that Maggie's eyes were open and sad._

"_Mommy?" She crawled on the bed and put her arms around her. She pushed Maggie's hair away from her face with soft strokes. "Mommy, are you okay?"_

"_Go back to bed, Abby."_

"HOW CAN I repay your kindness, Abigail?"

"No, problem, " Abby said as she quietly gathered up her bag. "I'd better head back to the airport."

"Are you okay?"

She looked up. "Me? I'm fine."

She was tired, and her mood was darkening. She wiped her forearm across her face and became aware that she was unshowered and wearing the same clothes as the day before.

"You look uncomfortable. Are you sure you want to wait all those hours at the airport?"

"I'm fine."

"Why don't you stay here a while? You can take a shower—perhaps a nap. I bet you haven't slept in days."

She hadn't, but sleep was not what she wanted now—though washing the sticky jungle from her body and changing her clothes would be welcome. But she declined.

"No—but thanks," she smiled. "I don't want to impose."

"Nonsense, you may have just saved my life."

"A bandage on your finger? Hardly."

"Please, Abigail. If it's modesty that's the problem, I'd be happy to leave the room."

"No, I couldn't . . ."

"Look, I'm dying to go out for a smoke."

"No, I—"

"You'll have the whole place to yourself."

It was too tempting—a place to wash away the jungle and be alone with her thoughts, which threatened to overwhelm her at any moment.

"Okay . . . if you're sure you don't mind."

"Abigail, make yourself at home." He opened the door and closed it behind him.

DOWNSTAIRS IN THE lobby of _Le Tremoille_, Carter startled the unsuspecting desk clerk.

"_Parlez vous_ . . . English?" Carter asked. Despite much time in Paris as a boy, Carter never mastered much French.

"_Pardon, monsieur?"_

"English—do you speak English?"

"_Oui, monsieur."_

"Is there a Damon Albrecht registered?"

"Yes, Dr. Albrecht has arrived. Would you like me to ring his room for you?"

Carter was relieved that his instincts led him to the right place.

"Did he check in . . . _alone_?"

"The room is registered to Dr. Albrecht, _monsieur_, just like always."

"No, I mean, did he check in _with_ anybody?"

"I did not see him with anyone, _monsieur_."

"Are you sure?"

"_Monsieur_, I am sorry, maybe you ought to—"

"Please." Carter hit his palm on the counter and looked at the clerk with worried, round eyes. "It's important," he added softly.

The clerk sighed. "I checked him in myself, _monsieur_. He came to the desk alone."

"May I have his room number?" Carter asked. But out of the corner of his eye, Carter recognized the blond-haired man that sauntered down the grand center staircase by the front door of the hotel.

"You may use the courtesy phones over by the elevator, just ask the operator for—"

"Never mind. Thanks."

Carter took a deep breath and headed for Albrecht.

_**ABBY TOUCHED HER** mother's head once more and slid off her parents' bed. She left the room, closing the door slowly behind her, and watched as it eclipsed the light from the hall and poured darkness over Maggie._

_She passed Eric's room and saw the light on. His mop of curly brown hair was visible among a pile of blankets speckled with toy airplanes._

"_Go back to sleep, Eric."_

"_Where's Da-ee?"_

"_He went away."_

"_Where's Mommy?"_

_She didn't answer. There was a woman in her mother's bed, but Abby didn't know who she was. _

"_Want me to sleep with you?" She offered her company to comfort her brother, but it was she who needed companionship._

_Eric pulled open the covers. Abby shoved a pile of toy airplanes off the bed and onto the floor. She crawled in bed with her brother and closed the light. The two children lay in darkness, pondering the new silence in their home._

_Eric crawled close to Abby's ear: "Abby?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Is Da-ee mad at us?"_

_She was smart. She was intuitive. But Abby was seven, and she didn't know the answer. She didn't care at that moment. It hurt to picture his face._

_Abby's hesitation spoke to the little boy, and it upset him._

"_Don't cry, Eric. Everything's gonna be okay."_

"_You a wiar," he sobbed. _

_She was._

_He turned away from her, and she sat up from her pillow and stroked his soft, brown curls until he fell asleep. _

_And when he did, Abby crawled out of the bed and stepped into the dark hallway. She looked at her mother's closed door and walked past it into the cold bathroom next door. She turned on the light and closed the door. She turned on the faucet so no one would hear her, and then Abby cried._

_After that night, Abby hardly ever shed a tear again. She had lost her imagination, tossed away her wishes, and abandoned her faith. She grew into a hard-hearted girl with sarcastic wit, a cigarette in her mouth, and bottle beneath her jacket. Despite a marriage, her nursing education, and an attempt at medical school, Abby never pursued happiness, believing instead it was meant for others. She never let anyone see inside her, and didn't care very much to see inside anyone else. She buried her heart so deeply beneath her rough exterior that only the most gentle, loving, and devoted person could ever get near it. She was sure no such person existed, and thus she was safe. _

_But someone did. Not only did he get near her heart, but he touched it, and now he held it in his hands._

_And she was terrified._

_Because she loved him._

A BIG EMPTY room, a big foreign city, a big ache in her heart.

Abby couldn't control the emotions building in her, and it made her angry. She was angry at herself and angry at Carter for hurting her—and for not being here with her when she needed him.

She picked up the phone and dialed, and for the first time in her life, she found comfort in the voice at the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mom, it's Abby."

She needed her mother.

"Abby, honey, I've been calling you. They said you weren't at work."

"Mom, you'll never believe where I am—I'm in Paris."

"With John?"

"No," she said, her throat tightening.

"Well . . . why? How?"

"It's a long story."

"Abby, are you okay?"

She wanted to tell Maggie that she wasn't okay. She wanted to tell her that she was in love with Carter and that she needed him and that he hurt her. She wanted to explain that even though he did, she missed him so much—and being in Paris made her want him even more. Mostly, she wanted to tell her mother that she was scared—scared of being without him. And she'd only felt that one other time in her life—when she was seven.

But all she said was, "Yes, Mom, everything's fine."

Mental illness never interfered with Maggie's intuition.

"Abby, listen to me. Find him and talk this out."

"There's nothing to talk about—everything's okay."

"Find him, Abby, and get everything out in the open."

Years before, Abby had replaced everything soft inside her with stone. She couldn't get everything out in the open if she wanted to. She couldn't _understand_ her feelings over the last few days—let alone _express_ them—but she was trying.

"You were right, Mom," Abby tried to sound casual, but she sniffled through her words.

"Right about what, honey?"

She was right that Abby could love a baby—no matter what.

"Abby, tell me what's wrong."

Though it was her lifetime wish, Abby had a hard time growing accustomed to Maggie as she gained her sanity. But her long-time anger and resentment at her mother were slowly being replaced by friendship. And Abby was grateful that from Maggie's cocoon of mental illness, a mother emerged.

"Abby, are you there?"

She remembered the warmth of Maggie's arms when she confessed her greatest secret—the one she hadn't shared with anyone, not even Carter. She told her mother she had been pregnant and that fear made her end it. Maggie's arms felt warm and comforting that evening, and she wanted that feeling again. Abby reached down inside of herself, and a frightened child answered. For only the second time in her life, Abby cried sorrowful tears to her mother.

"M-Mom . . . "

"Tell me, baby."

Oh, the tenderness in Maggie's voice soothed the sharp edges of her pain.

"Mommy, I—" Her face was twisted with sobs, but she couldn't bring herself to say why.

But it didn't matter.

"I know, honey, I know. Everything's going to be okay."

A mother knew.

"JOHN, WHAT A coincidence running into you in Paris," Albrecht said as he saw Carter come up the stairs toward him two at a time to meet him mid-way. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for you," Carter answered a little breathlessly. He tried earnestly to keep himself calm by speaking slowly behind taut lips. "Abby left Kisangani rather suddenly. Have you seen her? She was pretty upset after the baby, you know?"

"Well, as it happens, we shared a flight to Paris," Albrecht confirmed. "But then she said she was going home to Chicago. Sorry I cannot help you any more than that. Perhaps if you go back to the airport right away, you can catch her. I believe her flight leaves at 5 o'clock."

"She stayed at the airport?"

"I tried to convince her to have lunch with me in Paris, but she seemed preoccupied . . . upset. Quite frankly, she seemed a little angry. Do you know why that would be?" he taunted.

Carter looked him directly in the eye—and was angered by the sight of the scar on the side of his face. "She stayed at the airport?" He moved a step closer to Albrecht. "She didn't come into the city?" His eyes were round and serious.

"You sound like you are in hot water, my friend. Consider flowers. I find that—"

"A woman came from the camps to claim that baby," Carter interjected.

"How fortunate," Albrecht said, looking straight into Carter's eyes as if daring him to speak further.

"You left pretty quickly yourself," Carter observed.

Albrecht walked down a step and got closer to Carter.

"You're wasting time, my friend. If you want to catch her, I suggest you be off to the airport." He reached out his hand. "It's been a pleasure, John. I hope we meet again."

"Yeah," Carter said. "Me, too." He ignored Albrecht's outstretched hand and slipped on his sunglasses to hide his disdain.

Carter turned and walked down the grand staircase. He was sickened by the sight of Albrecht, yet relieved there was no sign of Abby. He left _Le Tremoille_ with only one thing on his mind: If he hurried, perhaps he could catch Abby at the airport.

Damon Albrecht watched Carter exit the building. With his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and his sunglasses down over his eyes, Carter walked out into the bright Paris afternoon.

When he could see Carter step to the curb for a taxi, Albrecht turned on the stairs, and slowly, deliberately, and without a sound, he headed back to his room.

ABBY TOOK A deep breath and let down the side pieces of her hair, which she had pulled back with the one metal clip she brought from Chicago. She grabbed her bag and brought it with her into the well-appointed marble bathroom of Albrecht's hotel suite. She pulled her shirt over her head and slipped out of her pants. Her hand reached into the large oval shower to turn on the hot water. Just the refreshing sound of the heavy stream made her feel better. She slipped out of her panties, removed her bra, and stepped under the large waterfall showerhead. It saturated her hair and body, and Abby slowly relaxed as the water began to wash away the emotions she let loose this afternoon. She stood there naked and let the strong shower overpower her, not knowing how desperate Carter was to find her.

OUT IN FRONT of _Le Tremoille_, Carter was anxious to catch a taxi back to the airport in hopes of joining Abby on the 5 p.m. flight to Chicago. He expected an abundance of cabs at this time of the afternoon, but out front there were none. He sat on a gilded bench in front of the hotel and noticed beautiful, brown, female eyes piercing into him.

These eyes were about five or six years old—maybe seven. They rested on a face graced by a tiny slightly upturned nose with rosy cheeks and dainty pink lips. When he met her eyes, she smiled. When she did, her cheeks dimpled and her eyes wrinkled in the corners. The light danced in them, and Carter could not help but smile back.

"_Bon jour_," she said.

"_Bon jour_," he said back in a French accent that even this little girl realized was poor.

"Do you want a taxicab?" she continued in French-accented English this time.

"Yes, I do."

"You have to wait your turn."

"Thanks."

"It won't be long."

"How do you know?"

"I'm Melisande. I live here. My grandmother is the boss of the hotel."

"Really?"

"_Oui—y_es. She is the boss of everything."

"Well, that makes you a very important person, huh?"

"Yes, it does," she responded as if it were a matter of fact. "Do you know Doctor Damon?"

"The man I was talking to inside? Yes, a little. Do you?"

"He gave me a shot once," she said with a distasteful glare. "Do you like shots?"

Carter pursed his lips, squinted one eye, and shook his head. "Naaaah. But I'm a doctor, so I have to give a lot of them."

The little girl gasped as if she were Little Red Riding Hood discovering the wolf in her grandma's clothing.

"I don't need one today!" she said, quickly covering her upper arms.

"Are you sure?" Carter teased.

"Doctor Damon said I don't need one today, and the lady said so, too. She's a nurse, so she would know." Melisande nodded her head and furrowed her brow to seem more convincing.

Carter leaned forward on the bench.

"You saw Doctor Damon with a nurse . . . _today_?"

"_Oui."_

"Here in the hotel?"

"_Oui."_

"What did she look like?"

"She had eyes like mine," little Melisande said, framing her eyes with two circles she made by touching the tips of her thumbs to her index fingers.

"Did you hear her name?"

Just then a taxi pulled up, and Carter stood to enter.

"_Oui_," she replied.

"Was it . . . _Abby_?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"_Oui_, I'm sure," she said, scowling and shaking her head emphatically. "That was _not_ her name . . ."

Carter's tension waned, and relief once again spread over him. He opened the door of the taxi, settled into the back seat, and gave a wave to Melisande as the driver pressed on the gas. With his eyes closed and his head back on the seat, he just barely heard her little voice say:

". . . it was _Abigail_."

_NEXT—_

_Chapter 9: Carriages & Pumpkins (Finale)_


	9. Carriages & Pumpkins

_**CONTINENTAL DRIFT  
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration**_

_**(Post-"Now What?")**_

**_CHAPTER NINE: CARRIAGES & PUMPKINS (Final Chapter)_**

**_Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent)._**

**_Summary: "Carter is frantic, Albrecht is about to make his move, and Abby is incredibly vulnerable"—these are the words of a reader, now a friend, who described to me exactly where we are in the story, and thus I thank her for her words. As you'll see, it's just about time for everyone to step up to the plate._**

**_Disclaimer: Once more, characters theirs—story and dialogue mine. It's all just for fun._**

**_Author's Note: I had no business posting this as one chapter. It's just that it was not written to be fanfiction, and I had to bend it to fit the format. I may not have done a good job. Once again, this chapter has a different "feeling" than the others. It was the hardest to write since we have no model for these emotions, but my dreams supplied most of them, as have yours, I'm sure. Although I tend to be meticulous about putting in factual background details—e.g., the description of the political situation in the Congo, survivability of blunt chest trauma in infants—I took liberties with legal matters here._**

_**My plan was to ask for your feedback **__** when it was all over**__**, but you've been so nice throughout, I have no business asking for any more. If there is anything that you'd like to add, I'm happy to know what you think.**_

_**Thank you for taking the time to read this story, let alone comment on it. My deepest gratitude. Enjoy.**_

_**

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THE ELEGANT WATERFALL shower felt refreshing against Abby's skin—especially after days of sweltering heat, humidity, mud, flies, and mosquitoes in the Congo. Luckily, the pounding water also began to wash away the tide of emotions that had been churning in her stomach for days—weeks, really. She soaped her body and shampooed her hair quickly and then leaned back against the cool slate tiles of the large shower stall and let the hot spray wash the suds away. She closed her eyes as she felt the bubbles slide down from her head onto her neck and then slip between her breasts along her stomach and down her legs and then curl into a circle on the shower floor and disappear down the drain, taking a few of her worries with them.

The well-appointed bathroom of Damon Albrecht's suite was a far cry from the trickling pipe that served as a shower when Abby was in Kisangani. Now that she thought about it, the dark-tiled room was also a far cry from the aging porcelain bathroom in her own apartment. Only Carter's dark-stone bathroom in his tasteful, upscale, two-bedroom apartment rivaled this one. Abby had showered there many times, and it had begun to feel like home to her. It was the shower in Luka's hotel room that remained a mystery.

_SADNESS AND PAIN were the only aphrodisiacs for Abby and Luka, who liked each other and managed to enjoy sex, though they lacked the safety of trust, the warmth of friendship, the comfort of respect, and the passion of true love._

_Abby had grown accustomed to waking up at Luka's while he was already shaving for work. He'd get out of bed without waking her, begin getting ready without a word to her, and order himself breakfast without a thought of her. Each time, she'd rise and dress and wave good-bye like a stranger who dropped in for the night—which she was. But Abby didn't think she deserved anything better. She learned that when she was seven._

_So when she stayed at Carter's the first time, she was surprised to be awakened by his lips on her neck and shoulder. When she remembered where she was and whom she was with, a smile rose on her lips. He reached around and kissed them, and she rolled onto her back to give him better access to her mouth. He took advantage of their geometry to touch her gently above and below the plane of her stomach. They had drifted off together without clothes, having lulled each other to sleep with their own rhythmic sounds, which made it all the easier to pick up where they had left off the night before. _

_When it was time to pull themselves away from each other and get ready for the day, Abby strolled in and out of Carter's bathroom like she was at home. That morning, Carter lingered in the shower as she listened to the radio. Dressed only in a bathrobe of his, Abby entertained herself with a peek at his body as he soaped and rinsed, alternating with a peek inside his medicine cabinet. He encouraged her to make herself at home. To him, it made them seem like a family._

_When he took his time in the shower, she admitted she both missed him and worried about wasting water, but in truth he was delaying her. She opened the door to get to the bottom of his procrastination, and he seized the opportunity to invite her in with him. He pulled the robe from her and let it drop to the floor. Then he pulled her close and kissed her neck._

"_If I knew you were in such a hurry, I would have suggested we do this together," he teased. _

_Abby was dumbstruck by the powerful effect he had on her, and she closed her eyes to try to control it._

_Carter released her hair from the clip atop her head and let it fall about her shoulders. He turned them so they stood under the stream of water with their arms on each other, and they shared hard, powerful kisses that made her knees weak. Her hair and body now wet and sleek, he pushed her against the wall and stared in her eyes. He started with her neck and shoulders and soaped up her body with his own hands. Then he stood back against the stone-tile wall of the shower as she rinsed the suds off and shampooed her own hair._

"_What are you doing?" she asked him._

"_Watching you." _

_She smiled and shut her lids against the force of the water as it soaked her hair and body. _

_He never moved his eyes from her._

_They were under the spell of the most sincere of aphrodisiacs—the safety of trust, the warmth of friendship, the comfort of respect, and the passion of true love._

ABBY FELT GUILTY luxuriating under the crystal clear water, knowing that some of the people she met in Africa would never be able to bathe in anything better than a muddy stream. Her somber mood returned, and she began to move quickly rather than inconvenience Albrecht any longer than necessary. Plus, she hoped by some miracle she could catch the 5 o'clock flight to Chicago.

She stepped out of the shower and dried off, and then she picked through the assortment of complimentary toiletries on a marble shelf over the sink. Abby brought almost nothing from her medicine cabinet at home, save deodorant and tooth accessories, believing that she'd be back in Chicago in less than 24 hours. Thus she was caught without some items normally essential to her daily life. Not even her nicotine patch did she carry—though Abby proudly resisted the temptation of a cigarette for the whole trip.

Albrecht had offered her the plush, white complimentary robe that came with his suite, and she pulled it around her body. She walked out into the bedroom and looked through her bag for her comb, and that's when she heard the door unlock.

Albrecht startled her when he returned to the room without announcing himself so soon after leaving.

"I'm so sorry, Abigail. I thought perhaps you'd be dressed by now."

"Well, I'm quick but not _that_ quick," Abby joked a little nervously. "I guess I enjoyed the waterfall shower longer than I expected."

However, Abby actually thought she was quite hasty.

She waited for him to volunteer to leave again. When he didn't, she asked for a few moments of privacy.

"I hate to bother you, but I need a little while longer," she said, holding her thumb and forefinger just a little bit apart to show the small increment of time. "I'll be heading back to the airport soon, and so I'll be out of your hair before you know it."

She laughed awkwardly, trying to fight the alarms going off in her head. She felt the need to tug at the robe, and her hand clasped it tighter around her chest.

"Go ahead and finish up, Abigail. I won't be in the way."

"Please, I—"

"There's no need to be modest. You are a very beautiful woman."

He hopped onto the bed just outside the bathroom door.

Abby's senses were piqued. She turned slowly and headed into the bathroom trying to figure out how she had lost control of the situation and what she should do about it. She faced the mirror in front of the sink and reached to close the bathroom door. But he slipped in behind it. She jumped when he appeared in the mirror behind her loosening the tie he wore around the collar of the casual button-down shirt he traveled in from Kisangani. Abby instincts confirmed her doubts. She continued combing very slowly, and then his hands were on her shoulders.

"I'm pretty sure if I leave for the airport right away there may be room on the 5:00 flight, so I'd better move fast," she said attempting to sidestep out of away from the mirror. But his hands gripped her shoulders tighter. When she looked up at her face in the mirror, she saw her own fear and vulnerability—the parts of herself that she hated the most.

CARTER ORDERED THE taxi to stop. He stepped out and commanded his body to disengage from the rage he felt at Albrecht for deceiving him and himself for believing him. He needed to concentrate on finding Abby.

It was easy to get little Melisande to tell where Albrecht's regular room was. Suite 66, the big red door in the far corner of the 6th floor was not a place easily forgotten by a tiny girl scared of needles. Carter passed on the elegant-but-slow 19th century elevator and instead took the stairs to the 6th floor—two at a time.

ABBY WATCHED IN the mirror as Albrecht's lips came close to her ear. His hands clenched her shoulders, and he began to massage them. He let his fingers extend down to touch the skin just under the collar of the robe.

"Tell me about you and Dr. Carter," he said.

Abby's mind was racing, trying desperately to think of a way out.

"We've been together for about a year . . ." She tilted her head away from his warm breath.

"No, I mean tell me . . . _things_ . . . about when you're with Dr. Carter."

Fear was Abby's enemy, paralyzing her and making her vulnerable; but anger and outrage were her allies, giving her strength.

She turned around and with all her might, she pushed him away from her with two flat palms against his chest.

"What do you think you're doing?" she shouted.

Albrecht was startled for a brief second, and Abby reached for the door. However, in the next moment he seemed empowered by Abby's boldness. In an instant, he moved forward toward her again, this time pinning her against the sink. Now with his groin pressed against her stomach, she felt more vulnerable than she did a moment before. Though she tried to fight it, fear began to overtake her again. She gripped the sink behind her to steady herself, leaving the front of the robe to fall open slightly. He reached inside to help himself to her warm, soft curve of her breasts.

Albrecht heard the knock on the door to the suite even before Abby did. He held her still with his hand over her mouth, and then she heard it, too—and a voice.

"Dr. Albrecht?" they heard. "It's John Carter."

When he heard no response he tried again more forcefully. "Albrecht!"

Albrecht moved them closer to the door, still with his hand tightly over her mouth.

When there was no response, Carter knocked more softly this time. With his ear close to the door, he called her name tentatively as if he were terrified of a response.

"Abby?"

He knocked softly again. "Abby, are you in there?"

The sound of his voice made her tremble. He was just on the other side of the door—

Abby wriggled a bit to loosen Albrecht's grasp, he reached into his pocket and produced a small switchblade. When he opened it, she could see the spot on the blade that he positioned quite naturally against his injured finger had a touch of blood on it already.

Carter tried futilely to use the doorknob, and his frustration and worry began to show. "Albrecht!" He slammed his fist. "Your friends here at the hotel won't appreciate if I make a scene."

Albrecht's fingers covered her nostrils, making it hard for her to breathe.

"Not a word." He whispered to her. "You don't want to have to explain to Dr. Carter why you are completely naked in my hotel room, do you?" And he jerked her robe open wider, exposing her upper torso. Anger and humiliation forced tears up into her eyes.

Albrecht engaged the short chain on the door that limited the amount it could be opened and moved Abby behind the door where she could not be seen. He slipped his blade back in his pocket.

"I can reach it in an instant," he whispered to her. "Don't make me show it to Dr. Carter. He hasn't had very good luck with knives, has he? You told me that yourself." He kept his hand tightly covering her mouth and nose and opened the door the width that the chain permitted. Carter instinctively jammed his foot in to prevent it from closing, painfully capturing it between the door and the wall.

"Nice to see you again, John, but you'll never catch up with her this way. I'd like to visit, but you see I'm about to nap, so—"

"Where is she?" Carter said, leaning his weight on the door.

"Are we still talking about Abigail? Because I told you—"

"The little girl who lives here—she saw you with her today."

"Melisande? She's just a child. Certainly she's mistaken—"

Abby was frightened but could hardly tolerate the way Albrecht toyed with Carter. She couldn't breathe and made a decision.

She jerked her head out of Albrecht's grip.

"John!"

He heard his name accompanied by the deep gasp of lungs filling after being deprived.

In an instant, Carter reached through the narrow opening of the door. He grabbed Albrecht's tie and twisted around his hand and added a handful of the shirt beneath it and used them to pull Albrecht tightly against the small opening in the door.

Carter's heart pounded. In all his life he could hardly remember touching someone in a way that caused harm. Other than a good right punch to Peter Benton at a weak point in his life, he couldn't remember taking out his aggression on anything more than a punching bag. Hitting Benton left him feeling ill, and he was a little sick to his stomach at the moment as well.

Through tightly clenched teeth Carter said in measured tones, "Abby, step where I can see you, please."

"John, how did you—?"

He cut her off and exploded: "Abby, move so I can _see_ you! I want to _see_ you!"

And he slammed his free hand against the wall outside the room, which startled a maid cleaning a room down the hall. When she peeked out she shouted, "Police!" and ran toward the elevator.

His arm was getting tired. And he feared he was losing his grip. His heart was pounding.

As she pulled the robe closer to her body and tied it, she came around behind Albrecht and faced the slightly open door. And when he saw her, wet hair and naked, only the white terry cloth separating her from the hands of the animal who called himself a doctor, his heart nearly burst through his chest, and he tightened his grip on Albrecht, whose face grew red and began to gasp for air.

"Abby, are you okay?"

Carter's voice was shaking and sweat poured from his brow. When she saw him, Abby became more fearful for him than for herself.

"I'm okay, John, I'm okay. But how did you—"

"Get dressed and come with me."

She seemed confused.

"Abby, hurry up and come with me . . . _please_."

She quickly dressed and picked up her bag, while her soaking wet hair sprayed herself and her belongings.

"Carter, you're . . . making a . . . mistake," Albrecht gasped.

"If you touched her . . ."

Carter was seething, his nostrils flaring at the thought. He tightened his grip until Albrecht's face got redder, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees collapsed from under him. Carter struggled to keep him on his feet, but Albrecht lost consciousness and slid to the floor with Carter's hands still gripping his neck through the narrow wedge of open doorway.

"Carter!"

Abby stepped over Albrecht's form and unchained the door. Carter fell into the room with them.

He put his fingers to Albrecht's neck.

"No pulse."

Abby checked his airway.

"He's not breathing! What's wrong?"

"I don't know—maybe I crushed his windpipe," Carter said with his ear to Albrecht's chest.

He heard faint sounds and gurgling. "Starting CPR."

Carter began pumping Albrecht's chest and alternately breathing for him, and in quick bursts he told Abby about Colette's aunt and the rape and the origin of the scar. He explained that Albrecht may have done this to other women in the camps—and no doubt to other female acquaintances.

"Oh my God!" Abby mouthed. "He was always taking trips to the camps. He said there was a patient there—a boy with polio."

"The baby's mother had a boy with polio, but he died."

In moments, Albrecht was coughing and gasping but with a clear airway and a strong pulse.

"Come on, he's okay now. Let's go. The police are probably on the way. They'll get him an ambulance if he needs one.

Abby, angry, stood over him.

"Did you do that to Colette's mother? Did you father that baby?"

He lay gasping on the floor.

"Abby, let's go."

"Did you?"

"Abby—"

He lay on the ground, clasped his neck, and rolled away from her gaze in the fetal position.

CARTER WANTED ABBY as far away from Albrecht as he could get her as fast as possible. He led her swiftly down the stairs. He reached back to grab Abby's hand, but she never took it. In the lobby, Carter stopped at the desk and asked to speak to Melisande's grandmother. However, she was busy assisting guests and was not available. He left their contact information in the U.S. and a message that the police were on their way. He suggested she have Dr. Albrecht investigated and removed from her payroll. By now, Bendu would certainly have told Angelique, and it was likely Albrecht was no longer welcome in the program—perhaps not even in the country.

OUT ON THE street in front of the hotel, Carter and Abby were greeted by the strong late-afternoon sun. Carter turned to take her hand, but again he found her out of reach. She stood facing him on the sidewalk from yards away. She was grateful but cautious, and he got the message quickly.

They looked at each other quietly for a few moments. A few people hustled passed them on the sidewalk, but they didn't notice. They kept their distance and stared with hurt expressions. But moments later, despite the busy hour, not a person was on the walk in front of the hotel but the two of them. They each breathed slowly and tried to sort through pain and worry.

"Are you okay?" he said from their distance.

"Yes, I think so. Are you?"

He nodded.

"Thanks," she said. "For getting there when you did."

He came a step closer.

"Did he—"

"He tried."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He starting walking toward her, but she quickly stepped back to keep her distance.

"Don't . . . please." And she raised her hand to keep him away.

His lips were pressed tightly together as he suppressed the urge to run to her. If he'd thought about it, he'd have realized he was a little angry—angry that his presence didn't prove something to her and angry that she hadn't run to him as soon as they were outside.

"Abby, I didn't sleep with Debbie."

She looked deep into his eyes. He took a step toward her, and this time she stood still.

"I was mad that you took your key back," he continued. "And I felt guilty about leaving Luka in Matenda and . . ."

She looked at him. She knew she hurt him, and she wanted to take it all back.

" . . . I was upset because I couldn't get you out of my mind."

He clenched his fists as he remembered how he tried.

"Debbie came to my room the night of the crash. You know, everybody's got a cure for my back," he half-joked to relieve the tension.

But Abby's face still showed pain.

"She didn't know about my relationship with you," he said and took a step closer. "Look, I admit it. For a minute, I thought that if I kissed her and was . . . _with_ her . . . then maybe I'd forget about you. I thought that's what you wanted."

She took a step closer to him.

"It's _not_ what I wanted."

"I couldn't do it," he said, coming closer still. "I can't be with anyone else but you. When I asked her to leave she did. That's it. That's all that happened."

She wanted to believe him.

"When I saw her—" Abby couldn't say the word _bra_. "Her . . . you know . . . I thought you—"

"But I didn't. I _didn't_, Abby. That's not who I am, you know?"

He moved within a few feet of her. His eyes struggled to get through to her.

She looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze.

"I know," she said. "It's just—"

"Abby, look at me."

She slowly raised her eyes but not her head.

"I'm not Richard," he said to her. His round, brown eyes struggled to appeal to her.

She inched over closer to him. He bit his lower lip, reached out, and tentatively touched the sleeve of her shirt, seeking permission to be close to her at that moment.

And she edged over and leaned her forehead to his chest and slowly lifted her arms around his shoulders. She pressed herself against him to find the comfort she needed so desperately just then. Carter gathered her close and rested his cheek against her hair, and relief fell over them as the loneliness of the past few weeks fell away, as it always did when they touched.

He hugged her tightly, and she curled against the warmth of his body and held on.

"I was only in Damon's room for a shower before my flight," she explained. "I wasn't going to—"

"I know. It's over now."

He pulled away from her and tilted her face toward his with the fingertips of one hand. With the other, he brushed still-soaking-wet strands of hair away from her face and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Then he raised his hand in the air and hailed a taxi.

It was Abby who pulled him back down to her and wrapped her arms around him for a long, full kiss. A taxi pulled in front of them and waited for the two of them to finish their kiss. The driver did not disturb them. In fact, he looked away with a little smile.

After all, they were in Paris.

"EVERYONE IS GOING to want to get on that 5 o'clock flight to Chicago—especially all those people whose flights were canceled," Carter warned.

"Canceled?"

"There was bad weather in Chicago yesterday—they're all backed up."

"How do you know?"

"Susan—I called her."

"Susan!" Abby slapped her forehead. "She's going to kill me. I haven't called her since I left Paris."

"Yeah, well, she'll be happy to know you're all right, since I probably scared her to death when I said I didn't know where you were."

"You didn't!"

"I did—but I'll apologize when we get home."

"Well, I checked the flights when I landed in Paris," Abby said. "The next flights are—"

"—9 o'clock on Air France; 9:40 on United."

Carter knew, too.

"Well, I guess we have some time," Abby observed. "We can grab some coffee at the airport, I suppose."

"How about a little taxi sightseeing?" Carter proposed.

Abby nodded anxiously. She hadn't gotten to see any of Paris in her two short visits.

"DeGaulle Airport—and take the _long_ way," Carter said to the driver, hoping he understood English. He added instructions to take them past landmarks such as the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre.

Abby kneeled on the seat and leaned almost her whole body out of the window as Carter pointed out sights of Paris that a girl from Minnesota might only find in books. He told of adventures with Bobby and recounted stories of his parents and grandparents in happier times. He laughed, and his eyes sparkled. To Abby, he seemed happier than he had been in months.

Soon she grew tired, however, and climbed down from her perch. She curled her legs under her and leaned against him. He continued his storytelling, but Abby just looked at his face. She was so grateful to be so close to him again and wondered how long it would last.

"The first time I ever saw the Moulin Rouge was with my grandfather—"

He looked down and caught her staring at him with a tense and furrowed brow. He stopped speaking, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

"It's all over," he said softly. "There's nothing to worry about. I promise."

She nodded and snuggled against him.

"I'm tired. I feel like a nap."

"I feel like a party."

"Wake me when we get to the airport, party boy."

She curled up on the seat, lay her head in his lap, and fell asleep as he stroked her hair and face with his fingertips.

He looked at her and had an idea.

"Driver?"

Carter got the man's attention and gave him new instructions. He spoke softly, careful not to wake Abby. Then he leaned back in his seat and watched her sleep.

And he smiled.

ABBY DIDN'T NOTICE when they pulled up in front of the _Hotel de Crillon_, a palatial grand hotel situated in a huge plaza that looked more like a residence for royalty than a place for an overnight stay. It was Carter's boyhood home in Paris.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he said as ran his hands through her hair.

She didn't budge.

He moved the still-wet strands off of her forehead and kissed it. "Abby, wake up, we're here."

She cracked open her eyes slightly, and when she caught site of the magnificent edifice, she lifted her head from his chest, opened her eyes wide, and her jaw fell open.

"Carter, what is this?"

"I forgot to tell you. This party's in Paris."

"What? You're crazy. Where are we?"

"It's our hotel. Come on, let's see if Henri still runs the place."

Carter helped Abby out of the car.

"Hotel? I thought we were going to the airport?"

"I'd like for us to spend a night in Paris."

"We did last week."

"No, I mean the _right_ way. Tonight. We'll go home tomorrow. Please . . ."

He moved a piece of hair out of her eyes.

"You need it," he explained. "You've been through a lot. And I need it, too."

He smiled at her, and for the first time in a long time, she smiled also. Abby squinted one eye and patted her pursed lips with her index fingers as if she were weighing the idea carefully.

"I don't know," she teased. "I am pretty anxious to get home to my sweaty apartment to see my ants and do my laundry. But heck, another day in the same clothes I've been wearing for week, why not?"

"I'll make it worth your while."

"I bet you will," she said, and they smiled at each other mischievously from the corners of their eyes.

Before she could protest anymore, they entered the palatial hotel through a magnificent revolving door and immediately found themselves in a grand lobby amidst the 18th century décor embellished with Italian marble and Baccarat crystal chandeliers.

Abby's jaw dropped at the splendor.

"I can't come in here, Carter, look what I look like!" With one hand Abby reached for her hair, while she tugged at her clothes with the other.

Abby's hair lay in half-dried strings. Her jeans were frayed at the bottom. Her shirt was wrinkled from the long flight from Africa. Not to mention that her eyes were still swollen from tears and lack of sleep. It didn't help that she still felt Albrecht on her skin.

Carter put his hand beneath her chin. "It's okay, come on."

She jerked back. "I thought you weren't comfortable with all this, anyway?"

"All what?"

"You know—opulence. Aren't you the guy that drives a Jeep and rents a two-bedroom apartment?"

"I like my Jeep—when it works. And I can't wait to get back to my two-bedroom apartment. But—" he looked at her face and tried to take strength from her. "—I don't want to feel . . . ashamed . . . anymore."

She smiled.

"Besides," he said, "I want to do it for you." He seemed to be winning her over, and it made him happy.

"I don't need any of this. You don't have to do it for me—"

He reached with his hand and curled her hair over her ear.

"I want to," he said gently. "Plus, it'll be fun to see it though your eyes."

"My eyes would be happy seeing the Holiday Inn at the airport."

He came closer.

"Look, tomorrow we go back to our regular lives, but tonight . . ."

He looked around at all he could give her, and for the first time in his life, he was proud of it.

" . . . I just want you to have one night you'll never forget, okay?"

He kissed her forehead and looked in her eyes.

"If you hate it, we'll never do it again," he added.

She smiled and looked around the elaborate room.

"I won't hate it," she proclaimed.

Carter asked a clerk for Henri and mentioned his name. "Tell him it's John Carter from Chicago."

"_Monsieur_ Dr. Carter," sang a small, bald man who approached them with open arms. "It has been years."

"Nice to see you Henri. I'd like for you to meet Abby Lockhart."

"_Mademoiselle_," he said with a nod, though she half expected him to kiss the back of her hand.

"Dr. Carter, I was sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was a fine woman, and we'll miss her here at the _Hotel de Crillon_."

"Thank you, Henri."

"Tell me, what can I do for you?"

"Henri, I remember you had a suite . . ." Carter put his hand on Henri's shoulder and led him out of Abby's hearing. Abby saw Carter shake the man's hand. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought there were several bills in it.

Abby walked through the grand lobby of the Crillon over marble tiled floor, plush sofas, oriental rugs, and multi-tiered chandeliers. She headed for two large glass doors that led to a courtyard. Outside, workers were busy setting up chairs and tables covered with white tablecloths and satin bows. A woman stood in the middle and directed other men carrying large bouquets of spectacular flowers—white chrysanthemums, pink roses, yellow daffodils, white carnations. They arranged a set of chairs in a semicircle as if seating an orchestra, and a large grand piano with shiny black and white keys was rolled in.

Abby watched for a while until all the finishing touches seemed in place for whatever the event was they were preparing. Abby saw the first guests begin to arrive in long crepe and silk dresses and black ties. The hotel bellman tried to shepherd them to the party using a velvet rope, but Abby stood in the way.

"_Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?"_

The bellman tried to get Abby's attention as he tried to figure out where to position the rope.

"I'm sorry. Yes?" Abby answered when she realized.

"_Mademoiselle_, do you belong with this group?"

Abby looked at the guests and touched her hair and jeans.

"No, I don't," she said and stepped out of the way but continued to watch from behind the velvet rope.

"Hey!"

Carter got her attention away from the preparations.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Looks like there's going to be a party."

"Not thinking of crashing, are you?"

"Depends. Make me a better offer."

"What do I have to beat?"

"Well, I think I see shrimp cocktail . . ."

"Pffffft. That's nothing."

He put his arms around her from behind and tucked her head beneath his chin. "I can do better than that." He reached down and placed two or three kisses just behind her earlobe.

"If you say so," she curled out from his grip, faced him, and slipped her arms around his neck. "But if they bring in an ice sculpture, it'll be very tough to beat."

They smiled and kissed, and she wondered what he thought deep down when he saw the well-dressed women pass her by on the way to the party.

"Come on, let's see some of Paris while Henri makes some arrangements for us—"

"Arrangements?"

"Uh huh. He's getting our room ready. Let's go for a walk."

"Walk? Look what I look like."

"Come on. You look beautiful—but walk a little behind me, okay?"

"Hey!" She slapped him playfully for teasing.

"I'm kidding," he said and slipped his arm around her waist. "I love the way you look."

"Thanks."

"Maybe we can buy you a hairbrush along the way."

"Cut it out!"

Actually, she was wearing clean jeans and a T-shirt and her hair had dried in pretty waves. She was free of make-up.

She took his breath away.

THEY WALKED FROM the hotel along the river, strolling among pedestrians, eyeing the river boats, smiling at children, and starting to relax again in each other's company. She reached for his hand.

"How did you get here so fast?" Abby asked.

"Bendu Nyobi—the pilot of the plane—he knows a guy . . ."

"Knows a guy? Did he smuggle you on a cargo plane?"

"Not even close—it was a Gulfstream V."

"A what?"

"I . . . sort of . . . hired a plane."

"You _hired_ a plane?"

She stopped but he continued a few steps until he realized his hand was still behind him and attached to her.

"Uh huh . . . fancy one. Refrigerators, telephones." He was smiling as he told her, but she was not.

"You hired a plane just to come after _me_?" she said with wide eyes.

He nodded, and the look in his eyes told her he would do it again.

"You're crazy," she said.

"Why? You came after _me_."

"Yeah, but—"

"Why did _you_?"

"Because . . ."

"Because why?"

"Because I thought you might get hurt!" she shouted. "And because I wanted to be with you." She was a little annoyed that he forced her to admit it.

"Don't you think it was the same for me?"

She shrugged to minimize the effect his words had on her.

He stopped walking and moved over to the railing overlooking the Seine. She stood next to him, and he inched over until their arms were touching.

"You can't get away from me—not anymore," he said looking out over the water. "Wherever you go, I'll find you."

He looked down at her as she surveyed Paris next to him from the banks of the Seine.

"Wherever you are, I'll come after you," he added.

He awaited her sarcasm and was ready to answer it. Instead, she melted his heart.

"Promise?"

And Abby inched closer to him and looped her arm under his and leaned against him.

He turned his head and pressed his lips against her hair. "I promise."

A motor boat passed at speeds too fast and splashed them in its wake.

"Whoa!" They jumped back and laughed. Abby got the worst of it.

"My hair is just never going to dry today."

"Come on," Carter said, trying to contain his laughter. He reached for her hand and they kept walking.

At the beginning of a footbridge they came to a street vendor with a bucket of fresh-cut roses. Carter bought a pink one and stripped it of its leaves and thorns as they strolled. They crossed the bridge as the evening sun began to get lower in the sky, but the blades of late-day light were powerful, and Abby had to squint. Carter stopped mid-span and leaned over the railing to the river beneath him, working diligently on the flower.

"This is a side of you I've never seen," she teased.

He smiled but didn't respond until he broke off the long stem up near the bud and slipped the rose behind her ear and into her hair. He tucked his hand under her chin and examined his design.

"You're not serious, are you?" she said.

He thought she looked . . . ridiculous.

"It's Paris. All the women wear them," he said.

"Show me one."

She smiled with her shapely lips, and her warm, brown eyes hypnotized him. He lifted her face to his and stared at her.

An expert at lightening the mood, Abby said, "Uh oh, you're not going to recite poetry are you?"

"RRRoses are rrred," he began, trilling his R's in a terrible interpretation of a Shakespearean actor that she heard him do before, "Violets are blue . . ."

"Enough!"

And they laughed at his performance, and the flower fell from her hair into the river. They leaned down and rested their chins on their arms against the railing and watched the water carry it away.

"I'm not really a flower-in-the-ear type, you know?"

He nodded in agreement and turned to her, his head still resting on his arms. He reached over and touched her lips with his fingertips. She moved closer, preferring instead to rest her mouth softly on his, where her lips felt safe and happy. He kissed them back. With his nose against her cheek he breathed in the perfume of her skin, which he missed so much.

"I'm sorry," she said when they peeled away from each other.

"For what?"

"For being a terrible girlfriend."

"Where'd that come from?"

"I am."

"You're not."

"Yes. You needed someone to be with you when your grandmother died, and I wasn't. I hurt you, and I didn't intend to do that."

He didn't answer. She was right.

"John, I care about my family, and I always will—"

"Of course you do."

"I don't know what I did to deserve them. But I'm stuck with them, and they're going to need my help—"

"Don't say anymore. I don't want you to choose between me and your family."

"Except at funerals . . ." she said.

He sighed with a half-smile.

"I'm so sorry for what Eric did—"

His face grew darker.

"Look," he interrupted. "It's over," he said as he walked away from the railing and continued across the bridge without seeing if she followed. The wounds were still fresh.

Abby caught up with him, and they walked in silence for a while until they reached the other side of the bridge. A spectacular building lay before them.

"Is that what I think it is?" Abby asked.

Carter looked up. "The church?"

"Not just _any_ church—the Cathedral of Notre Dame, right?"

"Yeah."

"Come on."

"What?"

"Let's go—I have an idea," she said.

"You want to see Notre Dame?"

"I don't want a tour. I want to go inside—for you."

"For me?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm not even Catholic—and you, I've never known you to go to church."

"I think you should go inside and say a proper good-bye to your grandmother," she insisted, taking him by the arm.

"Gamma wasn't Catholic either."

"Carter, work with me here," she said with frustration. "My brother and I ruined your first good-bye. She meant a lot to you, and we ruined it. You need to say good-bye properly or you'll never forgive yourself—or me," she said tugging him.

"Abby—"

"Look, I complained a lot about Catholic School, but when things got bad or I just needed a place to think, I'd sneak into the chapel, and it helped me. I told you I went through a religious phase."

The Cathedral of Notre Dame, with its Gothic architecture, moody interior, and priceless artifacts, was one of the grandest places in Paris. But to Carter, it was a place of mystery.

"What do I do?" he asked when they went inside.

"Just do what I do."

Abby approached a bank of prayer candles. She lit a long match in an already burning candle, and set another candle aglow. She bowed her head, and for the first time in years, Abby spoke to the heavens from a church. She said a prayer for the health of her brother and mother and asked for strength and forgiveness for herself. She asked for the courage to talk with Carter about things they had yet to discuss. And, finally, she asked for blessings for the soul of Colette . . .

In the dim golden light of Notre Dame, Carter watched Abby deep in her ritual, and it touched him. Her eyes were closed, eyelashes sweeping the tops of her cheeks, and her beautiful lips moved slightly in silent prayer.

She opened her eyes and little wet spots formed in the corners. She wiped them with her pinkies.

"Go ahead," she said.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say good-bye and tell her you'll do the best you can."

"Abby—"

"Tell her."

"Abby, this is crazy."

"What would you say if she were here?"

He thought a minute and said softly.

"I don't know—_thanks for being my grandmother and my mother._"

"_And_ . . . " Abby prompted.

"And _I'm sorry_—" he said, choking a little on his own newly formed tears. _"I'm sorry for being a disappointment to you."_

Abby didn't expect his emotion, and suddenly she felt nervous.

She took his hand and pulled him close to the candles. "You didn't disappoint her; you were closer to her than anybody."

"She wanted me to take on the family business," he explained with guilt in his voice. "She wanted me to be more involved—"

"What she wanted was for you to be happy."

Her eyes and words soothed him.

She grabbed a long matchstick and lit it in the fire of another candle, and she handed the burning match to him.

"Light one and say good-bye," she said and stepped back to give him privacy. But he reached for her wrist and pulled her back next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders, lit the candle, and closed his eyes. He said his good-byes and wished Gamma a peaceful rest. And just in case there was something to all of this, he said thank you for Abby.

When he opened his eyes, she was smiling at him.

"Now we better get out of here before we see a lightning bolt with my name on it."

He smiled, and they walked out into the street as the sun got even lower in the sky. They strolled back to the hotel with clasped hands in the cool breeze.

HENRI CLAPPED HIS hands twice, and Francois, a dark-haired, blue-eyed young man, appeared before Carter and Abby.

"This way _monsieur, mademoiselle_," Francois said with a bow. As he did, Carter and Abby smiled at each other and silently mimicked _"mademoiselle."_

They walked to a private elevator and stepped on. Two floors later, Carter and Abby followed Francois to the huge, carved double doors of the Cendrillon suite.

Francois opened the doors and entered the room, and Carter and Abby followed. Francois turned on the lights and separated the curtains, despite evening settling in. Carter immediately set about checking the room: He peeked at the bathroom, made sure the telephone was working, and opened the doors to the terrace.

Abby, on the other hand, stood frozen in place a mere three feet from the threshold and gaped at the elegance and grandeur before her.

"Henri would like for me to bring you a magnum of champagne, compliments of the _Hotel de Crillon_." Francois's English grammar was excellent, but his thick accent was difficult to penetrate.

Carter looked at Abby, still frozen in place. She shook her head "no." He smiled proudly at her.

"No thanks," Carter responded. "We don't drink."

"Can I get you anything else,_ monsieur_?"

"We're fine," said Carter as he reached into his wallet and gave Francois a tip—which must have been extremely generous, as the young man backed his way out of the room bowing over and over.

"I thought he was going to kiss your hand," Abby joked as Francois shut the door behind him.

Abby finally moved from her spot near the door and explored the suite where they would be spending the night. The enormous living room where she stood had ceilings that must have been 20 feet high. The walls were covered with hand-painted wooden panels, and rich pastel carpeting hugged the floor. There was a polished-wood dining table and a beautiful lacquer writing desk beside a plush sofa that looked inviting to Abby after their long walk.

At the end of the long living room were two doors made of glass divided into pretty rectangular panes. They led to a large terrace with a slate tile floor on one side and terra cotta at the far end. It overlooked the courtyard of the hotel. On the terrace, there were two or three dining tables, chairs and a striped, cushioned bench.

Back inside, a pair of heavy double doors led to the enormous bedroom with a giant king-size bed and the same plush carpeting as the living room. In the bathroom off the bedroom, beautiful beige and brown marble covered the floor and walls. The huge, old-fashioned footed bathtub caught Abby's eye.

At the end of the bedroom were two more double doors just like those in the living room that also led to the terrace. Abby stepped outside again and this time she noticed a plush upholstered swing that matched the striped bench, only it was much longer and deeper and attached to an iron frame. Abby sat on the swing for a moment and slid back in the deep seat, letting her ankles dangle off.

When Abby crawled out of the swing and went back inside, Carter was at the door to the room with both Francois and Henri. They rolled in a rack.

If she didn't know any better, she'd say it was a clothing rack.

The young man wheeled the rack past Abby into the bedroom. She peeked through the door and watched as Francois opened an interior set of double doors that Abby assumed was a closet and disappeared inside.

At the sight of Abby, Henri said, "I hope everything is up to your satisfaction, _mademoiselle_."

"Yes, thank you," Abby said, tugging at her shirt and smoothing her hair.

Henri bowed and left.

"What's all this?" she asked Carter.

"A surprise."

"_Monsieur_, it is all ready," said Francois.

_"Merci,"_ said Carter, and once again he placed bills into the hand of the young man, who bowed gratefully.

Carter closed the door behind him.

Finally alone, Carter asked her, "So, what do you think of this place?"

"It's amazing," she said nervously.

"That makes two of you," he walked to her and kissed her cheek.

"I think I need to sit down—am I allowed to?" she joked.

Carter laughed, "You can do whatever you want—but first, I want to show you something."

He brought her into the bedroom and opened the same doors that Francois did—the doors Abby believed to be a closet. The "closet" turned out be an enormous dressing room, which was now lined from the floor to the ceiling with an assortment of hanging clothes.

"What's this?" Abby asked as she rotated 360 degrees to take in the sight.

"Clothes."

"I can see that. Whose clothes?"

"Yours and mine," he said, as a matter of fact.

"What?" Abby was confused.

"I asked Henri to help us get out of these dirty things we've been wearing. I had him pick up a few suits and things for me, but I wasn't sure what you'd want, so he brought a few of everything."

"He brought my _size_?"

"Henri runs one of the most renowned hotels in the world. This is old hat for him."

"Why do I feel like Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_?"

Carter laughed and headed out of the dressing room. She caught up with him and took his hand and they walked into the living room.

"Hey," she said to slow him down. "Is this what you want to spend your money on?"

"On _you_? Ummm . . ." He pretended to think. "Yeah, yeah it is," he concluded.

"Carter—"

In the living room, he tugged her onto the couch and put his arm around her.

"Yes, this is what I want," he said, caressing her shoulder. "But I have thought about some other things I want to do."

"Like what?" she asked as she kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her body.

"I want to buy some equipment for the hospital in Kisangani."

"Sounds good," she said.

"I want make sure all the kids in that refugee camp are inoculated."

"I like it."

"And I want to buy this." He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a photo torn from a magazine.

"It's a plane," she said as she examined the picture of the twin-engine Cessna.

She looked up at him. "Don't tell me this is a picture of your new girlfriend," she said recalling a conversation with her brother Eric.

"What?"

"Never mind . . . What is this?"

"I found this picture during my flight. It's the plane I want to buy for Mr. Nyobi."

"You want to buy him a plane?"

"He really helped me, Abby." He touched her hair. "He helped me . . . see things."

"Sounds like a good man."

"A very good man."

"So what's the problem?" she said as she handed back the clipping.

"My father." He took his arm from around her and frowned. "I wasn't a very good sport when I learned Gamma wanted me to run the Foundation. She should have given the responsibility to Dad."

"Maybe . . ." Abby thought, "Maybe you'd feel better doing it _with_ him?"

"Dad and I? Together?"

"Yes—call him."

"You think he'd work with me?"

"I'm sure he would. He was born to do that work, John. He'll be happy you called him."

He mulled over her words.

"Okay," Carter said with relief in his voice. "Why don't you dress for dinner in the meantime."

"Dinner?"

"We have reservations at _Tour d'Argent_."

"_Tour d'Ar_—what?" Abby tried to mimic.

"When I was a kid, it was _the_ place to go for pressed duck."

"Pressed duck?"

"You'll love it. You can see the whole city from the rooftop."

"Is it pressed before it's cooked or after?"

"Trust me." He kissed her cheek. "Go get ready."

"_DAD, IT'S JOHN . . . " _

Abby could hear Carter on the phone in the living room as she removed her clothes in the bedroom to shower for the second time that day.

_"You were? Oh, well you couldn't reach me because I'm in Paris . . . Yes, with Abby . . . No, nothing like that—not yet, anyway . . . We've been in Africa . . . Yeah, the Alliance . . . Well, I was home for a day but a friend of ours got in trouble, and I went back . . . No, everything's okay—we're on our way home."_

When she was completely naked she stepped into the marble bathroom and skipped the shower. Instead, she turned on the water in the large, old-fashioned footed bathtub and decided a bath was just what she needed.

_"Dad, look, I'd like to talk to you about the Foundation . . . I have some ideas, and I want us to work on them together . . . Yes, together . . . Great . . ."_

Abby sank into the deep tub and poured in some scented crystals she found on the marble counter, while the Carter men made peace across the Atlantic. She closed her eyes and floated serenely in the high, warm water. The sound of his voice, happy and calm just a room away, made her comfortable and relaxed. All the events of the last few months started to disappear, and all the events of the last few days started to turn into memories. She was happy to see them go—all but one. She didn't ever want to forget the feeling of soft baby skin next to her bare shoulder, and tiny baby breaths near her neck, and little infant fingers surrounding her thumb.

She didn't ever want to forget Colette.

She looked down at her own body and felt that spot below her belly button and remembered secrets about herself that she had yet to share. Suddenly, the darkness Abby always carried with her returned. She submerged herself fully in the water to wash away the thoughts that interrupted her peace.

She came up for a breath, but left her ears beneath the water and listened to the sound of her own breathing for several minutes until the quiet rhythm was broken by Carter's laughter.

"_Dad, I like that idea! We'll set it up as soon as I get home."_ He sounded relaxed and comfortable, and his mood made her smile again. She stood from the tub, toweled off, and walked naked from the bathroom across the plush carpeting of the bedroom to the dressing room to pick from the array of couture selected by Henri.

Hanging from every inch of the large room were dresses, skirts, pants, and shirts—fancy and casual. Shoes of every style lined the walls. She had never seen so many clothes outside of a store.

Abby picked up a piece of lace from a small table and realized it was a brassiere.

"He brought me bras?" she said out loud and crossed her arms at the thought of Henri examining her breasts for her size.

She grabbed a pair of black pants and a black knit shirt with a white collar. She selected a black lace bra, matching underpants, and black sandals with a slight heal. She picked them up and brought them over by the full-length mirror.

That's when she saw it.

A dress—a ballgown really. It was strapless and white with the palest hint of lavender. It had a pretty sweetheart neck and a tightly fitted bodice with a ribbon that tied at the side of the waist. At the hips, the dress opened to a beautiful full skirt made of layers of tulle and silk. It was a dress for someone special, a movie star, a princess.

Abby stared at the gown and surprised herself by how much she wanted to try it on. She dismissed the notion, thinking the style was more suited to a debutante than a grown woman who'd been married and divorced already. But Abby couldn't take her eyes off the dress. It called to her, and the little girl inside her was awakened.

She walked out into the bedroom and leaned out the heavy double doors and peeked into the living room and saw Carter talking happily to his father. She closed the bedroom doors and went back to the dressing room and closed those doors behind her also. She tied back her wet hair into a sleek chignon and managed to clip it neatly with her one metal clip. Then she carefully removed the gown from its hanger, pulled it over her head, and struggled to zip it from behind. She walked to the mirror with closed eyes, and when she opened them, she recognized her face but nothing else. She touched her bare shoulders and put her hand flat against her stomach.

The dress was so pretty.

She felt pretty.

She _was_ pretty.

And her eyes grew wet, and she realized it was all because she was not used to the feeling of silk and tulle and organza . . . and beauty.

When the double doors of the dressing room flew open, Abby was startled.

"Abby, hey, I called my—"

"Carter, _DON'T COME IN!_" she shouted.

But it was too late. She grabbed for something to cover herself and could only reach a tiny pink scarf.

If ever he understood the word "breathtaking" it was at that moment because truly all the breath fled from his body at the sight of her in the princess ballgown. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just stared at the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

"Doesn't anybody knock anymore?" she said. She tossed aside the scarf, resigned to the fact that she'd been discovered.

His eyes were wide and his breathing labored. His mouth was open as if he were trying to speak, but no words came out.

"What's wrong? Did I leave a tag on?" she said.

He swallowed hard and finally spoke. Well, he _tried_.

"You . . . wow . . . that dress . . . you're . . . whew."

He walked over to her.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"I look like I'm going to the prom."

"I mean it, you're . . . gorgeous." His eyes traveled up and down the length of her.

"Everybody looks nice in a $5000 dress."

"Abby, stop it." He wasn't going to let her off that easily. His brought his hand up to her face and caressed her cheek as the other glided up and down her waist. And he kissed her soft, full lips. His kiss pushed aside her nerves, and she slid her arms up to his shoulders. But when his kiss became more urgent, she pulled away.

"Not yet, okay?" she said and took a step back. "So what did you come in to tell me?"

He forced himself to catch his breath and regain his senses.

"My father said he heard my mother is in Paris," he said. "He thought maybe I should call her. So I did."

"Is she here at the _Crillon_?"

"No. She hasn't come here for years—didn't want to run into Gamma," he laughed. "She wasn't in, but I told her to call my cell phone."

"Do you want her to join us for dinner?"

"Not really." He smiled but looked a little pained. "I'm sure she's busy with something or other anyway."

"I'm sure she'll want to see you—how often are you in Paris?"

"Look at the time," he said to change the subject. "It's already 9:30. I'll call to see if they have a late seating at 10:30. I'd better shower and dress."

"Undo this zipper please?" She turned her back to him with her hands on her hips.

He stared at the back of the dress.

"Nope. Keep it on a while, okay?"

"John—"

"Please?"

She looked skeptical, but she conceded. "Okay, just until we're ready to go."

Carter tugged off his shirt and she sneaked a peek at the muscles on his back as he headed for the bathroom. When she heard him turn on the water in the shower, she stepped out onto the terrace to enjoy the beauty of an evening in Paris. She stood at the terrace wall and looked out over the courtyard. The party for which Abby watched preparations earlier was now well under way. A woman in a magnificent white gown and an enormous, multi-tier cake gave away that the party was indeed a wedding.

She watched as people enjoyed cocktails and meals set before them by handsome waiters in bow ties and tails. All the women were dressed in formal full-length gowns and the men wore stately black tuxedos. A photographer snapped photos of the bride with her parents and the groom with his. Another fixed his lens on a slender little flower girl with short brown hair in a long pink satin dress. She danced awkwardly with a tall, brown-eyed boy who looked dashing in a black tuxedo. Abby smiled.

She watched the reception for a long time from her perch at the edge of the terrace, just two stories above them but a world apart in her mind.

When the clock struck the hour, a small orchestra replaced the recorded music over the loudspeaker. The beautiful sound of strings and woodwinds and brass swam through the air to Abby's ears and sent shivers down her spine. The dance floor filled with couples, including the bride in her full, organza gown and veil and the groom in his tails.

"What's going on?" Carter said.

Abby turned around to see him showered, hair clean and dried, his face shaved perfectly. His tall, strong body was attired in a black tuxedo, and he fussed with the cuffs of his shirt as he approached her. The sight of him made her stomach tingle, and she had the urge to run her hands over his arms and shoulders.

"You clean up nicely." Abby smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye, and he instinctively touched his tie and smoothed his hair.

"What's down there?" he inquired again.

He looked over her shoulder at the courtyard below.

"That party turned out to be a wedding."

They watched together for a while as couples danced and others ate. Soon the dance floor emptied but for the bride and groom, and the orchestra broke into a lazy, jazzy version of _"When I Fall in Love."_

Abby shivered as a cool breeze brushed over her bare shoulders.

"Cold?" he asked. He put his hands on her skin, and she quivered from his touch. He pulled her back toward him and wrapped his warm arms around her from behind.

"What are you thinking about?" he said close to her ear.

She was thinking how much she missed being near him. She was thinking how special she felt being alone with him in Paris—she in a beautiful gown and he in his handsome tuxedo. She thought how she would die if he moved one inch away from her right then.

But her answer was, "I'm wondering . . . do you think there's chocolate in that cake?"

She couldn't see him smiling at her from behind, but . . . _ohhh_ . . . she could feel when he leaned down and softly put his lips on her earlobe. She closed her eyes and leaned against him as the elegant couple danced in the courtyard below to beautiful music.

Envy coursed through Carter's veins as he watched the man in black spin his smiling bride. He held Abby tighter and could not resist whispering in her ear.

"Dance with me."

He stepped away and reached for her hand and turned her toward him.

"Carter—"

"Come on, dance with me."

"No, it's silly," she said and sidestepped to get around him. But he stepped in front of her.

"Why not? We've danced before, remember?"

_Remember?_ Could she ever forget moving across the dance floor of the Natural History Museum in his arms? Could she forget the way he looked at her? The way she tried so hard to avoid his eyes for fear he'd see how wonderful he made her feel?

"I don't think I remember how." She sidestepped again.

He sidestepped to block her once more. "It's okay, I do."

"John—" She tried to step around him once again, and for a final time, he stepped in front of her.

"Come on, we're practically dancing already."

He slipped his arm around her waist.

"Come on," he said. "I got you."

He took her in his arms and began slowly to move her around the terrace in time with the music below. Soon she relaxed against him as the orchestra played. Carter led her body skillfully and smoothly, and she gladly followed. The skirt of her beautiful gown made a slight swishing noise as they moved, and the bodice left her shoulders, arms, and the top of her breasts free for him to admire. When he wasn't looking in her soft brown eyes, he stole glances at her naked skin and imagined touching it. And as the dance progressed, he imagined kissing her neck and tasting her skin. He noticed that thin strands of her upswept hair slipped from her barrette and down to her shoulders as they danced. It made her look even more beautiful.

Carter could not stop looking at her, and Abby stared back at him and fell deeply into his brown eyes. With every turn she leaned closer to him until they no longer danced with formal outstretched arms. Instead, Abby gently snuggled close to him, and soon her cheek rested against his heart. Carter pressed their clasped hands against his chest, and his chin and lips lightly brushed against her hair. They moved so slowly on the slate floor of the terrace. Soon she closed her eyes, the orchestra music swelled, and they stepped in perfect rhythm. She pressed her nose against his chest and breathed slowly. It was happening—Abby was beginning to understand what it meant to be . . . _happy_.

Carter could feel nothing except her body pressing against him. He thought it impossible to feel so strongly about another person. But Abby meant everything to him, and he needed to show her.

As the music played, Carter let go of Abby's hand and tilted her chin up with his fingertips. He kissed her, softly and slowly. She slipped her arms around his neck, and he wrapped his hands around her waist, dancing and kissing the whole time.

Before long, they forgot to dance, and they remained caught in a long, deep kiss. The music stopped, and there they stood in the cool breeze with the dark open sky above, the Eiffel tower at the edge of their view, his arms around her bare skin, their eyes closed, and their two mouths moving slowly.

He was still holding her closely when he finally said the words. He simply peeled his lips from hers and spoke before she could even open her eyes. Her lips were still parted—still with the sensation of him on them—when he finally told her how he'd felt for more than three years . . .

"I love you," he said softly.

Her eyes opened.

Once spoken, he had the courage to say it again: "I'm in love with you."

Her eyes locked on his lips, and she kissed him again.

But he soon pulled them apart once more.

"Did you hear me, Abby? I said _'I love you.'_ "

"Yes, I heard you." She tilted her head and moved in for another kiss.

He pulled his mouth away before their lips could touch.

"How does that make you feel?"

She was unable to escape and slipped out of his arms. "You never said that to me before."

"I was scared to tell you."

She just looked at him, and all the reasons he feared to say it, started trickling back.

"Do you have anything you want to say to _me_?" he asked.

She stood silent.

But he knew.

"Can you help me take this dress off?" she said, avoiding his eyes. She started to reach behind to pull down the zipper.

Carter's lips tightened, his eyes hardened, and a pain started to rush over him beginning in his stomach. He exhaled without hiding his temper. He reached up, undid his bow tie, and jerked it from his neck.

She always disappointed him.

She saw his face. She knew what was happening. She couldn't help it.

"Please . . . can you help me?" Her voice rose and fell in a nervous quiver.

She grew frustrated and tried harder to reach the zipper. He stepped back and watched her.

"Please help me get this off!"

She was shouting, and he saw something in her eyes—a little girl struggling in dress too big.

"Abby—"

"It's not mine! It doesn't belong to me! I never should have put it on!"

He softened as he saw her shoulders and hands begin to shake. She flung open the glass door and entered the living room of their suite, and he followed.

"Abby, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just want to take off this stupid dress."

He approached her.

"What is it?"

"Nothing!"

"Abby, how do you feel about me? Why can't you say it?"

"Carter, please . . ."

"Tell me."

"Stop it!" He saw her wipe away a tear with her palm though she tried to hide it.

"Abby, if you don't feel the same way . . . you have to tell me because I'm in too deep."

"That's not it!"

"Then why can't you say it?"

"Because if I say it—"

"What? What are you afraid of?" He was frustrated and yelling at her.

"Please, Carter, don't do this!" A tear fell again, and she couldn't catch it in time, and so others tried to escape, too.

"Abby, help me understand—_please!_ What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid—"

"What?" He took a step toward her.

"I'm afraid, if I say it . . . I'll . . . I'll . . . _wake up_."

He stopped. He stared. He didn't know what to say. Suddenly, she looked like a little girl to him. He approached her slowly, his heart an open well of pity for her.

She turned away from him and reached behind and struggled to get at her zipper.

"Oh, God, no please . . . don't make this any harder."

He reached to take her in his arms, but she jerked away from him.

"You don't understand!" she cried. "People like me don't have lives like this."

"Don't be afraid."

"Carter—"

"There's nothing to worry about. You know how I feel about you. Abby—I need to hear it."

"John, _stop it!_"

"It's not fair to me. Abby . . . please."

_Brrring. Brrrrriiing._

The sound came from the pocket in his jacket.

Abby looked at him and all the reasons she needed him swept across her mind: _The way he danced with her at the museum . . . accompanied her to get Maggie . . . worried about her drinking . . . followed her to Nebraska for Eric . . . kissed her . . . rescued her . . . loved her._

Yet she said: "I'm sorry. I can't."

_Brrring. Brrrrriiing._

It was too risky for her.

_Brrring. Brrrrriiing._

And there they stood unable to get past the voices of the children inside them: He wanted to soothe his pain with love; she feared that love would cause her pain.

And there they stood.

_Brrring. Brrrrriiing._

He looked at her one last time and then turned his back. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone.

"Hello?"

It was a not-so-familiar voice.

"_Hi Mom, how are you? . . . Yeah, just for the night . . . No, I'm with Abby . . . Abby! . . . I thought maybe we could . . . Sure, it's late . . . How about coming with us for bite? . . . Late-night coffee? . . . What about breakfast? . . . Well, do you have five minutes? We can stop off at your hotel on the way to the air— . . . uh huh . . . yeah, I understand . . . Sure, when you're in Chicago next . . . Bye."_

Carter stood with his back to her and closed phone against his palm. He struggled to control his disappointment—and not to cry like lonely boys do.

Abby watched his back and shoulders and how they sunk slightly when he was in pain. She knew she was the cause—at least partly. She was hurting him, and she didn't know how to stop.

"Fine, Mom." He said to the closed phone.

He turned and saw her still standing there. Their eyes met.

"John—"

But he walked past her: "Fine, Abby"

He walked out on the terrace again and dropped his cell phone on the outdoor table. He slumped on a bench facing the Parisian cityscape.

She watched him for a long time from her spot in the living room. It hurt her to see him in pain. She pretended she was angry at his mother, but she knew she was just as much to blame. She touched her waist and realized she was still wearing the ballgown. She yearned to rewind the evening to their dance.

It was approaching midnight, when she realized she had spent the better part of an hour in silence watching him from inside. She was hungry and tired but couldn't imagine ever eating or sleeping again.

Abby took a deep breath and walked toward the window-paned door.

Carter felt her with him, and he spoke first without turning to look at her.

"Do you need something?"

"No."

"Mind if I have some time to myself?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be in soon."

"John—"

"My mother—" he interrupted. He was filled with anger and disappointment but could not resist sharing it with her—if only to let her know that she compounded his pain. "My mother keeps running. I remind her—even after all these years."

"She's afraid," Abby offered.

"She can't stand to look at me."

"That's not true. She feels like she failed one of her sons. Maybe she thinks she doesn't . . . deserve you."

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, firmly ending the discussion he began. He remained with his back to her. "Did you say you wanted something?"

"I want you to understand—"

"I understand."

"No, you don't."

"Can you—" he shouted harshly but tried to calm himself. "Can you just leave me alone please?" He dropped his forehead into his hands.

She clasped her arms around her body—not so much against the chill in the air, but from the chill she caused herself. She took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully to keep her lips from quivering. And she spoke.

She did it for him.

"When I was married to Richard . . ." she began, "we hardly spent any time together. He was busy with school; I was busy working in OB. He didn't need me to be a wife—I didn't have time to be anyway. I was always working because school for him was expensive and there was rent and food. He had girlfriends so he didn't need me for . . . sex." She laughed nervously.

Carter lifted his head, but she still talked to the back of it.

"One day, I got a call that my mother bottomed out. It was Oklahoma—Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. I went to get her—myself. Richard had classes—he wouldn't have come with me anyway. He did a couple of times but he . . . he got sick of it."

Carter leaned back in the bench and let her words penetrate.

"I drove her all the way back. I got her on a psych hold for the night at Mercy, and I went home. I was exhausted from the drive. She didn't want to stay in the car—I drove the whole way with her head hanging out the window like a cocker spaniel."

Carter nodded his head slowly remembering their own experience.

"When I got to our apartment, Richard was there. I was surprised . . . and I was glad because—"

She started to tremble, and Carter could hear her voice shake. He turned his head slightly in her direction. The sound of her sadness was like a call to him.

"—I was glad because I needed somebody. I didn't want to be alone." He could hear from her voice again that she started to cry but was trying to hide it.

"That night we were together, I . . . got . . . pregnant."

_Pregnant._ The word shocked him, and his own shield started to melt away. The thought of her carrying a baby startled him, and Carter had to fight the instinct to run to her. A myriad of emotions welled up in him—jealousy, rivalry, worry, and fear—and things began to spin a little. He turned to see her face.

"No," she said motioning with her hands. "No, don't look at me." He looked away again, though even with his quick glance he could see her eyes were wet. "Please don't look at me."

"I was terrified," she continued. "The night I found out, I waited up to tell Richard, but he never came home. And the next night, he didn't either, and by the third night, I decided not to tell him and just . . ." Her voiced trailed off.

"Just what?" Carter asked, but he already knew the answer.

"I ended it one day—on my lunch hour. I called in sick from the clinic and told them I ate some bad egg salad or something and that I wasn't coming back that day."

"_I ended it . . ."_ He let her words sink in.

"I couldn't do it," she explained, knowing he was processing the information and terrified of the results. "I was so scared. I was afraid to end up like my mother . . . or have a baby that ended up like my mother . . . I was afraid to raise a child all alone with a cheating husband who was never there."

He stood up and faced her despite her protests. Emotions collided in him—in a way, he felt bad for Richard, and yet he loathed him for allowing his own wife to feel so alone when she needed him most.

"You don't want me to love you, John. I've disappointed a lot of people."

"I don't think that's what you're afraid of."

"What?"

He came closer to her. "I think you're afraid that people will disappoint _you_ . . ."

She looked at him.

" . . . Because they have—_I _have."

"No—"

"Yes. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I walked away from you—all those times."

She was afraid to speak and reveal anymore—as it was, he could see inside her.

He went on: "When something good happens—when something or some_one_ comes along that makes you happy—you can't enjoy it because you're just waiting for someone to take it away."

"No, I'm not—"

"Yes, you _are_. But I'm not going to, Abby. Didn't you hear me say _'I love you'_? What do you think when I say that?"

She looked at him with innocent, round eyes—the eyes of a scared seven-year-old.

"I think . . . _why?"_

He put his hands on the side of her face. "Because you're smart and beautiful—and you care about people," he said—_pleaded_, actually. "And I want you to care about me."

He added in a choked whisper, "Please?"

He looked at her with innocent, round eyes—the eyes of a scared eleven-year-old.

She stood motionless—beautiful in her fancy dress, but empty like a doll.

Hopelessness overwhelmed him. He released his hands from her, turned, and walked to the wall of the terrace in time to see the party ending in the courtyard below.

"Take whatever you want from the dressing room," he said as he watched them clean up below. "We'll leave in the morning."

_Midnight. _

Carter wore his sadness like a suit. She could see it in all the muscles of his frame. She hurt him—again—and badly. And when he hurt, so did she, and the pain stuck in her chest.

Abby walked over to him and stood behind him. She swallowed hard, held on tight, and closed her eyes. She slipped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his back. And in her mind, she waited for her carriage to turn back into a pumpkin and kissed this life good-bye.

She did it for him.

"I . . . love you."

She felt his body tremble—or was it hers? She said it again.

"I love you."

He turned around and she held him by the waist with her head now pressed against his chest and her face hidden.

"Oh, God . . . I'm so in love with you."

She was so frightened. He could feel it in her body. On the other hand, he started feeling like he was . . . floating. For three years he heard those words only in dreams.

"Don't be scared," he said both arms now around her and caressing her bare shoulders.

"Abby, look at me."

She tilted her head toward him, but her eyes remained closed.

If it weren't so moving, he would have laughed: She looked so childlike as she struggled to protect herself with the last thing she could think of.

"Open your eyes."

She did—slowly—like a newborn acclimating to the light.

"See, it's real."

She rested her head against his shoulder and cried with relief and exhaustion.

He placed a kiss on her forehead and whispered, "It's okay, baby," with his lips against her skin, which made his first-ever love name for her—_"Baby"_—feel like two kisses more.

After several minutes of quiet closeness—several minutes of her leaning against him with his fingertips stroking her bare back—she lifted her head. "I'm hungry," she announced, sniffling up her emotions. "Can we get out of these clothes and get something to eat?"

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Sure—but we'll have to pass on _Tour D'Argent_ and find a late-night bistro or something. No pressed duck."

"Sounded painful anyway," she said. He held open the glass door for her and followed her back into the suite.

Never—not even for a moment—did they notice the eyes on them from three floors above.

ABBY AND CARTER changed into more casual selections from Henri's collection and went for a late dinner. She donned camel-color pants and a black, silk, button-down blouse. She took down her hair, brushed it smooth, put on just a hint of mascara and lipstick. Carter wore dark brown pants and a tan pullover that was rugged yet casual with his slightly mussed hair.

Carter remembered the Eiffel Tower housed a lovely formal restaurant and a less-formal brasserie that served late. A taxi ride later and they were standing atop the iconic edifice of Paris. It turned out the kitchen of the brasserie was only open until 12:30, and as they arrived, the lights were dimmed and the piped-in music faded down in a sad baritone.

"Oh, you're kidding!" Abby said. "I'm starving." She looked at him. "Do you think they put chocolates on our pillow back at the hotel?"

"I'll be right back," Carter said and disappeared into the pitch black of the restaurant.

Moments later, the foyer in which she stood was bright again, the lights went on over the bar and tables, and the music rose up.

Carter emerged from behind two swinging doors and was followed by a man in a business suit with a towel over his arm.

"_Mademoiselle_," the man said to Abby with a bow.

"Good evening," Abby said with a side glance to Carter.

"_Monsieur_, please follow me."

Carter offered Abby his arm, and they followed the man to a corner table with a stupendous view of Paris.

"I'll be right back," the man said once they were seated.

"_Merci_," Carter said. "That's the owner. He's a very nice guy," Carter said to Abby once he walked away.

"Carter, I thought they were closing," Abby said. She leaned toward him across the table, fearing her voice would carry in the otherwise empty restaurant.

"They were," Carter said, rubbing his hands together and avoiding her gaze.

"But?" Abby said, trying to meet his eyes.

He looked at her and smiled mischievously. "They changed their minds."

Abby smiled and looked out the window. She knew _he_ changed their minds, and as much as she hated to admit it, it gave her unforgettable thrill.

Though anything in the kitchen was at their disposal, they simply picked at some salads, shared a tray of fresh oysters, and downed refreshing cranberry juice. They talked about County and how the ER could use another fiber-optic intubation kit. They discussed her car and its chronic transmission problems. And they lamented the loss of Doc Magoo's to the horrible fire. All the while, they ate and smiled and touched hands and feet.

When they were finished, they went into the kitchen together to thank the owner, who had fallen asleep with his head on a table, and the chef, who sat on a stool next to him, snoring, with his head on his boss's shoulder.

"I SHOULD BE exhausted, but I'm not," Carter observed downstairs at the base of the enormous golden tower.

"Me neither," Abby agreed.

"Come on, let's go for a walk," Carter suggested.

"It's the middle of the night," Abby countered. The tower burned brightly, but the streets beneath were dark and made her a little nervous.

"It's okay—just for little while," Carter said and took her hand.

They headed along the grass of the landscaped mall that sat before the tower. They heard rustling noises as they entered.

"What was that?" Abby asked.

"What was what?"

"That noise."

"The trees in the wind—or a squirrel, I suppose. Don't be jittery."

She was reluctant to go into the park any farther, so she headed for a stone wall where the view of the tower above was massive and brilliant.

"It's so beautiful," Abby said of the tower above as she turned and walked backward the last few steps toward the wall.

He stopped and took her face in his hands, "So are you," he said.

She reached up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She closed her eyes and parted her lips just the perfect distance to match his, and they kissed.

"Say it again," he requested as he peeled his lips away. He couldn't get enough of _this_ Abby, with whom he rendezvoused every day for the past three years—in his dreams.

"I love you," she promised in a whisper. "I do."

"Remember those last two words," he said as he slipped her long hair away from her face. "You're going to need them."

"Are you proposing _again_?" She teased and put her bent elbows behind her on the stone wall and used them to push herself on top with a little hop. She sat up there as a mild cool breeze blew through her hair. There was a smile on her lips—and in her eyes.

"No, I'm not." He wouldn't propose without his great-grandmother's ring so he could slip it on her finger and make it all real for her.

Carter nervously picked up a stone and threw it like a little basketball into a wire waste receptacle.

"If I were proposing, you'd know it," he said as he scoured the ground for another stone, "because I'd start by telling you that I've wanted you since I saw you at my first AA meeting."

"How romantic," she replied from her perch on the wall.

"And I'd tell you how for a year I had dreams that Luka was being deported," he said as he tossed another stone that landed outside the basket.

"Nice—this is the man you followed to the Congo."

He smiled, but it disappeared as he said, "And I'd tell you what a jerk I was after you two broke up . . ." He threw the remaining rock in his hand like a bullet, and it landed inside the basket.

" . . . and how scared I was when I finally kissed you."

"Scared?" she asked.

"Scared that you wouldn't want me to."

"I wanted you to."

He walked over to a stately maple tree with heavy, low-hanging branches and pulled off a large leaf from which a butterfly hung to rest for the long, dewy night. He lifted the butterfly, and though its closed wings hid its colors, Carter could see how truly beautiful it was. The butterfly didn't try to fly away from him, but rather he set it down on a stone, and it rested peacefully just where he could see it.

"And if I were proposing . . ." he said as he walked over to her. "I'd have my great-grandmother's ring."

Carter took the leaf on which the butterfly sat and peeled away everything but the core stem and curled it into a circle and tied it.

He walked over and picked up her hand, "And I'd slip the ring on your finger."

He felt his throat tighten and his face get warm.

"And if I were really proposing," he said as he looked in her eyes, his fingers caressing hers nervously, "I'd tell you that I love you, and I'd ask you to be my wife because . . . you are already my family."

She pulled her hands away and slipped them around his neck.

Carter said to her, "If I were proposing, promise me you'd say '_yes_.' "

"If you were proposing," she whispered, " I would say _'yes.'_ "

She stroked his face with her fingertips, and when they neared his mouth, he kissed them.

Behind them the Eiffel Tower glowed brightly with thousands of lights that cut right through the thick darkness that surrounded it.

And so did Carter.

And so did Abby.

But not their companion, who watched them closely, from the other side of the green.

IN THE OPULENT grand bedroom of their suite at the _Hotel de Crillon_, Carter kicked off his shoes and removed the decorative pillows from the enormous bed. He pulled back the spread, revealing beautiful pale gold sheets lightly patterned in red and black. He pulled off his shirt and socks, hopped on the bed, rested on his side with his head in his hand as he watched Abby.

She brushed her hair and chatted about how beautiful Paris was and what she needed to do when she got home. She wondered how she was going to explain to Weaver about all the time she'd been gone. When he told her not to worry, she countered that he didn't have it so hard because he didn't need the money.

He listened to her, commenting randomly when she stopped long enough to take a breath. As she ranted, he patted the empty place next to him on the bed. She kicked off her shoes and lay next to him propped up on her elbow. Words still dribbled rapidly out of her mouth until he placed his index finger on her lips to hush her: _"Shhhhhhhhhhh."_

When he was sure he had her attention, he slid closer and kissed her and whispered, _"I love you"_ right next to her mouth. He kissed her again with soft lips while his hand went to her black silk blouse and started to undo the buttons. He clumsily tugged at one and tore the silk buttonhole.

"That's a brand-new blouse," she reminded him.

"I'll buy you another one."

She nudged his hand away.

"Let me before I have to get on the plane tomorrow in my underwear."

And as she opened her blouse one button at a time, pretty soft lavender cloth came into view. He followed with his eyes until he was also greeted by a tiny, white, satin butterfly. He slid closer and smiled at her, recognizing the butterfly underwear that meant so much. The look on his face made her smile, and she let the silk blouse slide down her arms and then tossed it over onto a chair.

Carter reached down and kissed the butterfly and then put his lips on the delicate spot just above it. Then he traced the tiny satin creature with his index finger as she watched. He let his fingertip drift over the rise of her breast and slip beneath the satin of the cup. She lay back and put her arms around him. Soon they were lost in each other: Two friends in love.

The late hour made everything seem slow, but that only added to the closeness they had been missing for so long. Abby was tired and simply closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of him kissing her and touching her—until for a moment there was no kiss and no touch.

She opened her eyes.

He was staring at her.

"What?" she said.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Are you okay?"

He nodded but never took his eyes off her.

"What is it?"

His voice was just a whisper. "I can't explain . . . how you make me feel."

She touched his face. "You don't have to."

Because she knew. She felt it, too.

Carter's stare was so intense that Abby had to force herself to hold his gaze—but her eyes had other plans. They kept drifting down to his lips, signaling him to kiss her some more.

He did, and for a long while, nothing could be heard in their room except for breathing . . . and kissing . . . and whispering. All the tiny sounds were blended together. But if you listened closely, you could make out the whispers, spoken in tandem over and over again:

"_I love you" . . . "I love you, too."_

"_You're so beautiful" . . . "I love how you feel."_

"_I need you" . . . "Do that again." _

Sometime later, when they were as close as two people can be, his head buried in her neck and hair, he heard sniffling and felt trembling. When he moved to see her face, the lashes of her closed eyes were wet, her nose was red, and her lips were quivering.

He went still and spoke to her: "Hey, what is it?"

"Nothing." She turned her head away quickly.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No."

He balanced on his elbows and took her face in his hands and swept away her tears with his thumbs.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just that I—"

She looked at him, and he looked back with deep love and genuine concern.

"—missed you."

He smiled as he traced her pouting lips with his thumb and then leaned down to kiss her. He held his mouth on hers until her quivering lip stilled.

"I'm sorry—for everything," she said when he released her mouth.

"Me, too. But it's over. Now I just want you to be with me."

"I am—"

"No, you're not—you're worrying. Your head is somewhere else. We're together now. Everything's going to be okay. Understand that."

"I'm trying—"

"I don't want you to think about anything except this moment—right now. Forget everything, just . . . be with me."

Once he felt her tension wane, he moved his lips slowly over hers, kissing her again and again, whispering each time _"I love you"_ until her worries were abandoned and were replaced once again by passion.

She missed this feeling that she belonged with someone and her body knew him. He missed the closeness that he only felt when he held her like this. And soon, everything centered at the spot where they met. He watched her face and then closed his eyes, and they clung to each other.

Deep breaths later, he rested on his pillow. She slid close to him, tucked her head near his ears, and whispered, "I love you."

And for the first time since he'd known her, he closed his eyes and confidently responded, "I know."

AFTER ONLY AN hour of sleep, Carter's eyes opened and fell upon the tip of Abby's sleeping nose, which he promptly kissed. He played with her hair for a few minutes and then slowly got up from the bed. He slipped on his pants and stepped outside through the double glass doors that opened onto the same enormous terrace reached through the living room doors. He surveyed the Parisian landscape—there was beauty in every direction. He closed his eyes against the gentle wind and breathed in happiness.

It didn't take long for a strange chill to spread through Carter, but it was not caused by the crisp breeze.

_Brrring. Brrrrriiing._

The sound of his cell phone startled him. Carter picked it up from the nearby table, looked at the tiny display, and wondered who would be calling in the wee hours of the morning. He didn't recognize the number—only that it looked local to Paris.

_Brrring. Brrrrriiing._

"Hello?" he answered.

"It's lonely in here," a raspy female voice whispered.

Carter turned around and looked through the paned doors into the dark bedroom. He saw Abby up on her knees on the giant bed. She wore a large bedsheet around her arms like a stole, revealing her delicate cleavage. Tucked under her chin was the hotel phone from the nightstand.

Abby's long, tussled hair flowed down on one side of her neck and her lids were still heavy with sleep. The gold bed sheet flowed lightly beneath her bare shoulders and just managed to cover her breasts. Her kitten-ish pose made Carter twitch, and he considered joining her and enjoying her body all over again, but there would be time for that later.

"Come out here," he said into the phone.

She joined him, the gold sheet now wrapped beneath her arms like a strapless dress. She held it closed with her right hand and slipped her left hand around his waist as he surveyed Paris.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

"Don't want to. But you should go back to bed—"

She shook her head and led him over to the long swing that sat near the far end of the terrace. It had a long yellow and white cushion that would have sat several people. So when Carter stretched out across the length of it, he was fairly comfortable. Abby lay in front of him on the swing, and he wrapped his arms around her.

The cool middle-of-the-night air felt sensual against her body, and the smell of his skin next to her made her want to get closer. She reached down to the slate floor of the terrace and gave a little push, and the swing began to rock. She lay against him, swinging gently to and fro, the beauty of Paris around them. It was all so beautiful. She was missing only one thing.

"John?"

He touched her hair and answered her. "Hmmm?"

"Tell me about the woman who came for Colette."

"She was tall," Carter recalled and stroked her cheek as he spoke. "Her features were so . . . interesting, so _attractive_. I think she resembled the baby around the cheeks and chin."

Abby smiled at the memory of the pretty newborn's face.

"How come she never came for her before?"

"She lives in a refugee camp and has four kids—and AIDS."

Abby nodded sadly.

Carter added, "I told her about you and the baby."

"You did?"

He nodded, and she seemed pleased despite the web of moisture that accumulated at the base of her lashes.

"She was so beautiful . . ." Abby observed one last time.

He kissed her head, and she snuggled closer to his bare chest. They lay still for a while and enjoyed the cool night air on their skin and the gentle rocking of the swing.

"We'll have to find a doctor to remove those stitches," Abby said as she traced the line of black threads on his chest. The skin no longer showed red edges and appeared to be healing nicely.

"How about the doctor that put them in?"

"Doctor?" She looked away.

"You never talk about it anymore."

"About . . . ?"

"About being a doctor."

"I'm happy as a nurse."

"Happy? Or it's just easier."

"Does my job look easy to you?"

"Your job's not easy—avoiding what you really want is."

"I'm not avoiding anything."

Yes, she was.

"You don't think about med school anymore?" he asked.

"I don't know how many of you doctors I really want to hang around with," she said with a smile, but something in her face grew dark. "Some of you aren't very good company."

He saw it. He didn't see it all evening, but he saw it then. She was referring to Albrecht.

"He touched you, didn't he?"

"I'm okay, really."

He slid down so his face was closer.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Carter, come on."

"Did he?"

"Just my pride."

He ran his hands over the sheet where it outlined her breasts and hips. She could see his eyes picturing Albrecht's unwanted touch.

"John," she said as she touched his face. The incident was over for her. She was more worried about him. "I'm okay."

"I feel like I have to do something."

"Make me forget," she said near his ear.

He stared back at her rich brown eyes, noticing how they squint when she smiled. His eyes drifted to her lips, and he aimed for them, kissing her softly. But a soft kiss was never enough for him when she was this close. He reached his hand over her and balanced himself from above to kiss her more intensely.

He stopped for a breath and lay by her side again. "How do you feel now?"

_Nothing ever bothers me when you're kissing me_, she thought.

"Fine," is what she said. However, Abby noticed that for the first time, the words in her mind and in her heart felt so close to her lips. Suddenly she wanted—no, _needed_—to tell him how she felt.

"Nothing ever bothers me when you're kissing me." She said it—and Carter looked so happy.

"Then I'll never stop kissing you." And for several long minutes more, he didn't.

Soon his hand instinctively slipped under the sheet she wore, and his fingertips played where his eyes had just gazed.

That is, until he felt a strong chill go up his spine. From the corner of his eye he saw something . . . or someone . . . and removed his hand from her body and pulled the sheet tightly around her.

"Do me a favor?" he said as he caressed her face.

She nodded.

"Go back inside, and I'll meet you in bed."

"Why? I kind of like it out here," she snuggled closer to him.

"Go in, okay? I'll be there in a minute."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He kissed her cheek. "I'll be there. Go ahead in."

"Carter . . ."

"Please, baby."

There was that word again.

They got up from the swing, and he opened the glass door. She passed through majestically, the golden sheet as her long-trained cape. He closed the door behind her and stood in the center of the terrace and stared at a window three stories above them. A pair of eyes stared back—through a lens.

He picked up a hotel phone that sat outside on the wrought iron table.

"Is Henri in the hotel? Francois? This is John Carter in . . . yes, that's right, the wardrobe."

He told them that someone with a room overlooking their terrace was intruding on their privacy.

"This is not a person just glancing out the window," Carter explained. "I could see a lens—a camera or binoculars. And he looked like he was writing."

Francois said he would go up to the room himself.

Carter closed the phone and went back inside. Abby was under the covers once again and had quickly fallen back to sleep. He stood over the bed and stared at her, reliving for an instant the arduous road they'd traveled to finally acknowledging their feelings. He touched a piece of her hair with his fingertip and leaned down to kiss her head.

"I love you," he whispered in her sleeping ear and kissed the baby-soft lobe. He sat on the bed next to her, unable to sleep with the memory of eyes watching them on the terrace.

Francois knocked delicately at the door to the suite. Carter stood to answer, and the motion of the bed woke Abby.

"Did you check out the room?" Carter asked a nervous Francois, who stood in the hallway several feet from the threshold of the suite.

"_Oui, monsieur."_

"Did you find anything?"

"_Oui, monsieur."_

"Well?"

Abby approached from behind Carter. She was barefoot and tying a red and gold sash around a black velvet robe from the dressing room.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Francois stepped aside. Behind him stood a man with a holstered gun. Instinct made Carter look to Abby and shepherd her back with his arm.

"Dr. Carter, I am Police Inspector Allaire. I've been watching you," he said in near-perfect English.

"Watching us?" Carter said with alarm in his voice.

"Why?" Abby said with annoyance in hers.

"Are you familiar with Dr. Damon Albrecht?"

"Yes, through the Alliance du Medi—"

"Dr. Albrecht was involved in an assault in his hotel suite yesterday afternoon."

"Oh," Carter said, "that's what this is about. I gave all our contact information in the States to the manager of _Le Tremoille_. But if you want to take a statement from Miss Lockhart, we can swing by the police station in the morning. It'll have to be early because we have a flight. But I don't understand why—"

"I don't think you do understand, Dr. Carter. Dr. Albrecht was the victim of a brutal assault yesterday. He was hospitalized in the Emergency Room for several hours."

"Albrecht was the victim?" Abby interjected indignantly.

"Dr. Carter, let me be clear," the detective said. "You are under arrest for the assault of Dr. Damon Albrecht."

"What?" Carter shouted.

"No!" Abby jumped in between.

"Dr. Carter you need to come with me," the Inspector said as he reached around Abby.

Carter nudged her aside and attempted to reason with the officer.

"Are you aware that when I arrived at Dr. Albrecht's hotel he lied about the whereabouts of my girlfriend and proceeded to assault her. He raped a woman in Africa—maybe a lot of women." Carter was shouting now.

"Take it up with the magistrate, Dr. Carter. _Philippe!_"

A uniformed officer appeared at the doorway of the suite and reached for Carter, spinning him around and placing handcuffs on his hands.

"Wait this is a misunderstanding—ouch!" Carter yelped at the tightened cuffs.

"Don't hurt him! John—" Abby was worried.

"Pardon. Pardon. I'm so sorry." Francois bowed nervously to Carter and then to Abby.

"Abby, my cell phone is on the table on the terrace. Call my father—it's on the speed dial—and ask him for Matthew Chapin's number."

"Matthew Chapin?"

"He's a lawyer."

"Wait, I want to go with you!"

"I'm sorry, _mademoiselle_," Allaire said. "You can meet him at the station."

He handed Abby a card.

Abby scratched at her head and mumbled to herself, "I don't believe this."

As they started down the hall with Carter, he turned to her. "Abby, it'll be okay. Just call and meet me at the station," he said as calmly as possible.

She looked angry and worried, and he didn't want to leave her that way.

"Honey, we'll straighten everything out. I'll probably be waiting outside by the time you get there," he smiled.

He said _honey_.

ABBY DRESSED QUICKLY in a pair of jeans from her own bag and a black scoop-neck pullover from the dressing room, courtesy of Henri. She shoved her wallet in a small black patent-leather bag she found the dressing room also. She made the call to Jack Carter, grabbed the card the officer gave her, and headed to the lobby. She ran into Francois, who apologized profusely for Carter's misfortune and helped her change a few American dollars for Euros to buy fare for the train. Francois showed her on the map how to get to the police station.

The streets were black as pitch in the pre-dawn hours, but the Paris Metro still carried a few travelers. Abby frequently referred to the scrap of paper on which Francois wrote directions to make sure she got off at the correct station. On the platform, she matched the letters on the paper to the ones on the sign. Satisfied she was at the right place she went up the stairs to the street to search for the police station where Carter was held.

The neighborhood of the police station seemed even darker than around the hotel. A large, garbage truck passed by, but once it left Abby's view, the street was still and quiet. She checked the number of a building near her and started walking toward the station's address. The only sounds were the crisp breeze and Abby's shoes on the pavement. She found her nerves getting the better of her and walked faster. A light up ahead marked her destination, and she had the strangest urge to run.

"Abby," she heard as she neared the light.

Relieved at the sound of her name, she turned around.

"I suppose I am the only person who doesn't call you that," Damon Albrecht said. His stood partially in the shadows of a street sign, his face half covered in darkness.

She inhaled sharply, surprised to see him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"They called me down to identify my attacker—the man who sent me to the hospital last night."

"You look okay to me."

"Is that your professional opinion? Maybe I should show you the bruises on my chest and neck."

Abby took two steps backward, turned, and continued walking.

"Dr. Carter is in serious trouble, Abigail," he yelled after her.

Abby moved faster. Her hands were shaking, but she held them close to her body and walked with angry steps, covering her fear with rage.

"You're beautiful when you're angry," he called after her. Abby added distance between them as fast as she could.

THE INTERIOR OF the police station looked like any Abby had seen on television. An officer was seated at a reception desk, and behind him was a small sea of desks in a room painted pea green halfway up the walls and gray the rest of the way to the ceiling. Each desk had a metal chair where officers interviewed complainants or booked suspects. Along the walls were doors that Abby guessed were reserved for more senior officers.

"_Mademoiselle?"_ At first Abby didn't realize the officer behind the reception desk was addressing her. _"Mademoiselle?"_

"Oh . . . uhhhh . . . Inspector Allaire, _s'il vous plait?_"

But before the officer could respond, she heard her name from the back of the room.

"Abby."

She saw Carter seated in a chair at the desk of the detective who visited their hotel room. Inspector Allaire was on the telephone when Abby approached. Carter's face lit up at the sight of her, but she saw tension and weariness in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked, noting his hands were still cuffed behind him. Her instincts would not permit her to show him affection in public, but she fought them and kissed the top of his head.

He nodded. "Did you get the number?"

She reached into her pocket, "Your dad sounded worried. I told him you'll call him—"

"Dr. Albrecht," the detective said over Abby as Albrecht entered the station.

Albrecht walked over. Carter breathed heavier the closer he got. Inspector Allaire took a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Albrecht.

"Dr. Albrecht, if this is the man who assaulted you, please sign on the dotted line," he said in English so Carter would be aware of what was happening to him.

"Why aren't you arresting _him_?" Abby said referring to Albrecht. "Dr. Carter was just protecting me. Don't you want _my_ statement?"

"Abigail, were you not in my room yesterday?" Albrecht asked Abby.

"Yes, but—"

"_Mademoiselle_, are you saying that Dr. Albrecht forced you to his room?" Inspector Allaire asked.

"No, I—"

"Were you not undressed?" Albrecht added.

"I was but—"

"Did Dr. Albrecht force you to remove your clothes?" the detective inquired.

"No, I was simply—"

Abby grew frustrated as she realized how she had been manipulated, and Carter began to seethe.

"This is all easy to explain," Albrecht said to Allaire. "I'm afraid the lady panicked when she heard her boyfriend was about to stumble upon our little tryst, and she came up with this story that I had assaulted her."

Abby gasped, and Carter's face grew red and angry.

"Bastard," Abby said.

"Son of a—" Carter scrambled to his feet. "Ask him how he got that scar! Ask him what he did to the woman in the refugee camp—"

"Dr. Carter—" Allaire interrupted, but Carter's rage won out.

"Ask him who fathered the baby with the crushed chest that I tried to save three days ago!"

Abby winced at the reminder of Colette's fatal injury.

"Dr. Carter, I'm afraid we'll be holding you on Dr. Albrecht's complaint," Allaire announced over the growing chaos.

"No!" Abby yelled.

Albrecht stood with a satisfied look, while Allaire signaled a uniformed officer to remove Carter from the room.

"Abby, I'll call Chapin. It'll be okay," Carter tried to reassure her.

"Don't worry, John," Albrecht taunted. "I'll see to it that she gets back to her room."

Carter nostrils flared with anger. He glared at Albrecht and said quietly with round, unblinking eyes: "If you touch her again, I'll kill you."

"Carter!" Abby yelled, exasperated, not recognizing the person who spoke.

"Did you all hear that?" Albrecht exclaimed pointing at Carter.

The uniformed officer who arrived to escort Carter grabbed him tightly and led him away briskly.

"Abby, listen to me," he called to her over his shoulder as they led him down the hall. "Stay here—don't leave the building alone!"

"Let him go!" A booming voice captured everyone's attention, and all motion stopped.

The police captain, a thick-waisted French-Algerian man, stepped from one of the doors along the wall.

"Did you hear what I said?" he looked to Inspector Allaire. "Let him go."

Allaire nodded to the uniformed officer, who reached down to Carter's cuffs. Carter looked at Abby, but she was too busy examining the captain.

"An individual has filed a complaint against Dr. Albrecht that corroborates Dr. Carter's suspicions about him. In fact, I've had three others over the past five years. All were dismissed for one reason or another. However, I think I'm convinced I'd like to ask Dr. Albrecht to stay with us a while."

He nodded to the uniformed officer who approached Albrecht.

Just then a woman stepped out from behind the captain. She was tall and attractive—in her early 30s or so with pretty dark tendrils at the sides of her fair-skinned face. Abby could not place her, though she looked very familiar.

"I know you," Abby said.

"My name is—"

"—Sophie," Abby suddenly remembered. "The woman from the airport."

Abby remembered she was the nurse who'd taken ill and refused to be treated before fleeing the terminal. That's when she met Albrecht and Claire, who were convinced she had gotten cold feet about going to the Congo with the Alliance.

Two officers escorted Albrecht down the hall, but Sophie kept her eyes on Abby.

"I was in the lavatory at the airport," she recounted in lightly accented English. "It was early in the morning. I remember looking up and noticing he was in there with me—in the _women's_ washroom. He held me down—right there." She was upset but composed as she told Abby the story.

Abby asked, "Why didn't you—"

"I was too scared," she looked down with shameful eyes.

"I would have helped you," Abby offered.

"I just wanted to get away."

Abby knew what that felt like.

"Yesterday evening, an ambulance brought him to the hospital where I work. I heard him tell the police that someone assaulted him—_a jealous lover_, he said—and I knew he must have tried to hurt someone else. I worked a double-shift, and then I came here to the police."

She looked up at Abby.

"I'm sorry. I should have said something sooner."

"It's okay," Abby said.

"They may ask you to come back and testify," Sophie warned.

"That's fine," Abby said and smiled.

Carter came up behind Abby, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and nodded his appreciation to Sophie. Abby wrapped her arm around Carter's waist. As they walked out, Abby turned and shared a look with Sophie.

"Take care of yourself," Abby said, grateful she managed to escape her own close call with Albrecht.

Carter and Abby walked arm in arm out the door. The sun still hadn't risen, though the slighter lighter sky said dawn was near.

"Who was that woman?" Carter asked.

Abby explained what happened at the airport and how she met Albrecht and Claire. "They said she just chickened out of going to the Congo with the Alliance, but I could tell there was something wrong . . ." Abby lamented.

When they reached the bottom of the steps to the station, Carter swung her around in front of him and hugged her.

"Are you all right?" Abby asked him.

"Yeah, are you?" he replied.

She reached up and slipped her arms around his neck.

"What's that you said earlier? One night in Paris I'll never forget?"

"Next time, we'll skip the police station and try the Louvre."

"Good idea," she said, and they kissed.

He lifted his head and looked skyward. "Come with me," he announced and took her by the hand. They began to walk, leaving Dr. Damon Albrecht behind them.

"You know," Abby teased as they strolled, "the really good criminals don't threaten people when they're actually inside a police station."

"They don't?"

"No."

"I'll remember that," he said and kissed the top of her head as they walked.

She made him smile.

HIS ARM FOUND its regular place around her shoulders, while hers tucked comfortably around his waist. Together they strolled out of the old neighborhood of the police station and soon found themselves along the edge of the river and on the footbridge they'd traversed earlier. Once again they came across the grand Cathedral of Notre Dame, only this time Carter directed her past the famous flying buttresses of the massive Gothic structure. They walked the length of the narrow island on which it stood to the very tip that jutted into the river. At that spot, the river is practically at one's feet as if looking over the bow of a boat.

Carter sat down near the point against a tree.

"What are we doing here?" she asked.

He took her hand and silently pulled her down to him.

"On the ground?" she said, feigning outrage.

He didn't answer, yet she obeyed and sat on the moist grass between his legs. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She had to admit she enjoyed the feeling of his body wrapped around her in the early morning chill, but the darkness made her nervous and his wordlessness made her concerned.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Abby asked again.

"I'm fine. It's not the worst thing that ever happened to me." His expression grew dark.

"What is it?" she tried again.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

He started to play with her hair. "Do you know how much I missed you when I was gone?" he asked.

"You're changing the subject."

"No, I'm not."

He leaned his head back against the tree and stared at the stars in the pre-dawn sky.

"When I was in Kisangani—the first time—a kid came to the hospital with his brother who'd been shot," he started to recount. "It was pretty hopeless . . . I worked on him for hours . . . opened up his chest . . . he died anyway."

"I'm sure you did everything you could," Abby assured him as she looked at the stars with him.

"I went to Matenda after that—the clinic where Luka was working. It's in the middle of nowhere."

"And the hospital in Kisangani _isn't_?" she half-joked.

"Not like this place. There's fighting every day in Matenda. One day, the clinic was raided by soldiers. It's hard to believe they were even soldiers—they all seemed like kids."

Abby sensed frustration in his voice, and she put her hand on his knee.

"We explained we were just doctors, but they didn't care. They put us on the ground: Me, Luka, Gillian—you met her, right?"

He looked down and strained his neck a little so he could see her face as her head rested on his chest. She nodded yes.

"There we were: On our knees, our hands behind our heads, and these kids were waving handguns around."

Abby curled on her side, still between his legs, and twisted so she could see his face.

"They said something to a clinic worker in French. I don't know what they were saying, but they sh—" he choked and swallowed hard. "They shot him."

"Oh my God," Abby said softly.

"This kid . . . this _soldier_ . . . comes over to me and presses a gun to my forehead . . . he's yelling in French . . . I have no idea what he's saying . . . I-I was so _scared_."

She nodded, unable to speak.

He looked down at her.

"You know what I was thinking about down there on my knees with a gun . . . _here_?" he said and pointed his index finger to his forehead.

That's when she saw him struggling to keep control of his emotions. She found herself gripping his T-shirt in her fist.

"You'd think I'd be wondering: _Will it hurt?_ _Will I die instantly?_ But I wasn't."

His eyes were glistening, and his chin quivered rapidly. It made Abby emotional, too.

"All I could think of was if he kills me right now," his pressed his lips together tightly to control his voice. "Abby will never know how much I love her."

She couldn't speak. His face was anguished.

"I walked away from you in the ambulance bay when I left for Africa, and I never told you how I felt."

She curled against him tightly. "It's okay," she said as she opened her fist, released the cloth of his shirt, and ran her flat hand over his chest. "It's okay."

"Turns out one of the soldiers was the brother of that kid I worked on in Kisangani," he continued. "He told the others how hard I tried to save his brother—and they left me alone."

They were quiet for several minutes while she silently leaned against him and stroked his chest.

Soon his cheek came to rest on her hair, and he began stroking her face with the back of his fingers.

"Everything got clearer for me in Africa." He kissed her head. "I came back for you," he whispered next to her ear.

She took his hand from her face and wove her fingers through his. Still curled up against him, she said, "I'm sorry how I acted that morning."

"Then," he said, "I went and did it again. When I left to find Luka, I walked away from you again."

"You were mad at me—"

"I'm sorry," he said to her.

"It's over now."

She snuggled closer, and they sat quietly, until she heard him exclaim, "Look!"

Carter nodded toward the sky. Just then the sun peeked out from its bed below the horizon and began to fill the atmosphere with spectacular colors—brilliant golds and rich reds floated among still-black shadows left over from the night.

Abby stood up and walked a few feet to the very point of the narrow strip of land and stared at the magnificence.

Carter stood himself. He came up behind her, put his arms around her, and pulled her toward him, tucking her head beneath his chin.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered reverently.

"Abby," he said close to her ear. "Remember the unfinished message I left on your machine . . . ?"

"You said, _'I just want you to know,'_ and then you stopped."

"I stopped because I was scared to tell you—"

"Tell me what?"

He exhaled loudly and held her tighter and looked to the sunrise for strength. "I just wanted you to know that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart it seems we are . . . " He stopped for a moment to regroup. "Abby . . . I'll never love anyone else the way I love you."

Abby reached up and untangled his arms from around her and began walking past the tree and up toward the road.

"What?" he called after her. "_What?_ Don't you feel that way?"

"No," she snapped and stopped with her back still to him. She turned around. "Because I'll never love anyone else." She looked at him with glistening, wet eyes. And then she smiled.

Who _was_ this woman?

CARTER AND ABBY stopped back at the _Hotel de Crillon_ to pick up their overnight bags. Carter arranged to have Henri forward the rest of their belongings to Chicago. Abby agreed to accept as gifts a few of the garments Carter bought for her with Henri's help. However, she declined the strapless ballgown she wore the night before, considering it too extravagant. A small nod from Carter was enough for Henri to know that he should pack the dress with special care and send it along with the rest of their things.

On the airplane, Carter watched out the window of his cramped coach seat. His seat and Abby's were at the extreme rear of the cabin and were the only ones available on the flight. Anxious to get home, they grabbed them. Abby relaxed with her head on Carter's shoulder and a red-felt airline blanket on her lap. He thought she slept soundly, but instead Abby watched intently in front of her as little wet eyes and a damp, red nose alternately appeared and disappeared behind the black and gold seatback as the mother in front of her bounced her fretting infant over her shoulder to quiet her.

With many hours to strategize, Carter made plans for them to go to his apartment as soon as they landed. He would fetch his great grandmother's ring and give it to her over lunch at one of their favorite restaurants overlooking Lake Michigan. Abby, meanwhile, plotted to take him to her apartment, present him with her key once more, and give him the greeting she denied him the morning he returned from Kisangani. She smiled to herself mischievously and snuggled closer to his chin.

When he saw Abby raise her hand in a little wave to the crying baby in the seat ahead of her, he realized she was awake.

"Tough to sleep?" he said referring to the decibels of the infant's shrieks.

"I don't mind it," Abby smiled and sat up in her seat.

"_When we get home, I want to stop off at my apartment—" _They said it in unison and burst into giggles.

"Let's go to my place first," he said.

"No, let's go to mine first," she countered.

"I have to get something."

"Me, too"

"This is important."

"So's mine!"

"My place first, then we'll go to yours," he bargained.

"How about mine first, and _then_ we'll go to yours?"

He sighed loudly in frustration.

"How about we get a taxi to drop us each at our own place, and then we'll meet up after?"

"Fine," she said and leaned her head back on the seat. "Drop me off first."

In the skies over the Atlantic flew a sleek silver airplane carrying two friends in love. They were formidable individuals on the outside—caring and dynamic professionals. But they were molten inside, and they flowed apart. It took a trip across the ocean to bring them back together—with help from friends they met along the way. They learned that with adulthood comes freedom and power—the freedom to reject the memories that cause pain and the power to heal the wounds of childhood. Sure, they had a lot more learning to do, but from here on they would do it together . . .

. . . because the broken-hearted girl was happy, and the lonely boy was loved.

Mid-flight, Abby lifted the armrest that divided them. She leaned close to Carter and placed her tired head on his chest. He wrapped one arm around her and let his hand slide up under her shirt a bit and rest on her stomach. The fingers of his other hand played with her hair as he pressed a kiss against her head. _"I love you,"_ he whispered in her ear as he coaxed her gently into sleep and tried to reach for some himself.

Eyes closed and consciousness ebbing, Abby rubbed her cheek softly against the cotton of his T-shirt and let her arm drift over his waist. With sleep in her voice, she replied softly, _"I love you, too."_

Of this, they were sure.

However, what they didn't know yet—and wouldn't know for many weeks to come—was that after making love the night before, a small piece of him found a small piece of her. And the love of their lives started growing, nurtured in a dark and cozy corner of her belly, just beneath a father's soothing hand.

—THE END—

_Fate hides in the sky behind the stars and arranges the destiny of souls like pieces in a chess game._

_And sometimes, it winks at you._

My undying gratitude to all those who followed Carter and Abby to Europe and Africa. If you knew what it meant to me for you to read this, you'd be happy you did. —KFS


End file.
